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A  Thanksgiving  Tale 

And    Other   Poems 

By 

SIMON  SULTAN 


Published    by    Subscription 


SOCIALIST   LITERATURE   CO.. 
NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1913 


The  Co-Operative  Press,  15  Spruce  Street,  New  York 


PS 
3S37 


Table  oi  Contents 


PAGE 

Preface    5 

Dedication   8 

A  Birthday   Ode 10 

I  Thought  of  Thee 12 

Good  Night 13 

A  Flower  Like  so  Lovely 14 

Spring  Song  14 

Wanderer's  Night  Song 15 

The  Lorelei    16 

Zuleika    17 

The  King  in  Thule 20 

Bertran   de  Born 21 

The  Hero  of  My  Song 24 

Convival  Rhymes   27 

Illusions    30 

Reflections   32 

Two    Brothers 33 

Jim's   Verdict    34 

lllstar's  Fortune   36 

At  the  Brook 38 

O  Love  as  Long  as  Thou  Canst  Love 39 

Greatness    , 41 

Crime    and    Hypocrisy 45 

The   Erlking   48 

God  Be  With  Thee 50 

The   Gauntlet    52 

A  Thanksgiving  Tale 55 

3 


602197 

LIBRARY 


PAGE 

Music    61 

The  Muse  of  the  Dance 63 

A  Biographv   66 

Retributive     71 

To  night     78 

In   Cupid's   Court. 81 

All  Her  Own 83 

A    Fish    Story 85 

Threnody  104 

Hope   108 

The  Age  of  Commerce 109 

Lean   Thou   Upon   Me Ill 

They  Gave  Me  Advice Ill 

When  In  Thine  Eyes  I  Chance  to  See 112 

Thou  Hast  Both  Pearls  and  Diamonds 112 

Erst  In  Life's  Too  Dark'ning  Shadow 113 

Unbidden  Guests   114 

Lay  of   the   Ferry 118 

The  Ward  of  the  Swans 120 

The   Minstrel's   Curse 124 

Womanly    , 129 

The  Last   Good-Bye 130 

Judicial  Anarchy  130 

Prandial  Honors   131 

A  Tale  of  Love 131 

The  Pride  of  Judgment 131 

In  Stilted  Phrase 131 

There  is  a  Death 132 

The  Dreamking  and  His  Love 134 

Thou  Comst  Into  My  Solitude 136 

The  Voter   138 

The  Spirit  of  Unrest 140 


PREFACE. 


Some  of  you,  my  readers,  no  doubt,  will 
ask)  why  I  should  introduce  my  book  in 
this  fashion.  I  have  several  reasons  which  I 
am  quite  sure  will  appeal  to  you  as  of 
sufficient  weight. 

The  foremost  of  them  involves  a  some- 
what amusing-  story.  You  will  notice  that 
the  book  contains  a  poem  on  Music,  which 
purports  to  be  a  translation  from  the 
German.  It  is  in  fact  such  a  translation, 
and  I  made  it  some  years  ago  from  a  Ger- 
man manuscript  handed  to  me  by  a  lady 
friend,  accompanied  with  the  request  to 
translate  it  into  English  for  her  benefit  and 
pleasure.  Some  time  afterwards  I  took  up 
a  volume  of  Thomas  Moore,  and  turning  the 
pages  at  random,  lo  and  behold!  I  find  the 
supposed  German  poem  I  translated  for  my 
friend  was  one  that  originated  with  Moore, 
and  by  a  double  transition  it  had  again 
acquired  at  my  hands  its  original  speech, 


though  far  from  its  original  form.  Lest 
some  literary  hypercritic  might  take  me  to 
task,  if  he  discovered  my  ever  so  innocent 
treatment  of  Moore,  I  thought  it  best  to  tell 
the  full  extent  of  my  delinquency. 

It  will  be  of  some  interest,  perhaps,  to 
compare  the  original  of  Moore  with  my 
translation.  Except  for  the  sequence  of 
thought,  not  even  a  family  resemblance 
remains  between  the  two.  This  may 
illustrate  what  happened  to  many  another 
original  work  coming  to  us  through  the 
medium  of  a  similar  transition. 

My  other  reason  for  this  preface  is  the 
desire  to  answer  in  advance  questions  you, 
my  friends,  may  wish  to  ask,  and  which 
might  not  otherwise  reach  me. 

In  the  first  place  I  wish  to  have  it  under- 
stood that  the  HE  and  the  SHE  adverted 
to  in  my  poems  are  in  most  instances  mere 
imaginary  persons,  though  the  incentive, 
now  and  then,  may  have  been  furnished  by 
some  individual  more  or  less  known  to  me. 

The  Thanksgiving  Tale  was  inspired  by  a 
report  which  appeared  in  all  the  newspapers 
about  the  time  it  was  written  of  a  man 
having  died  of  starvation  in  the  streets  of 
the  City  on  Thanksgiving  Day. 

6 


The  poem  "The  Ward  of  the  Swans"  is 
also  founded  on  a  report  which  appeared  in 
the  newspapers  of  a  dead  child  being  found 
in  a  box  on  the  lake  of  Central  Park  by  the 
keeper  of  the  swans.  He  was  attracted  by 
the  fact  of  their  persistently  congregating 
in  the  middle  of  the  lake,  and  upon  looking 
for  the  cause,  he  discovered  the  dead  child 
in  their  midst. 

As  to  my  translations  from  the  German,  I 
am  well  aware  of  the  fact  that  some  of  the 
poems  translated  by  me  have  been  quite  as 
well  done  into  English  before,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  an  addition  to  these,  not  un- 
worthy, as  I  may  say  without  self-praise,  to 
rank  with  these  predecessors,  should  not  be 
unwelcome.  Besides,  some  of  the  poems  I 
have  translated  have  never  to  my  knowl- 
edge been  translated  before. 

In  conclusion  let  me  say,  that  if  yours, 
my  friends,  be  the  same  pleasure  in  the  read- 
ing that  I  have  had  in  the  writing  of  my 
poems,  I  shall  consider  that  I  have  served 

you  well.  /  ^          ~-/~~ 

4.  y> 


DEDICATION. 

O  nest  of  this,  my  rhythmic  brood, 

Dear  fledglings  of  my  solitude. 

From  safe  obscurity  that  hie 

Aneath  the  carping  critic's  eye, 

As  meets  some  stray  from  cage  and  care 

Pugnacious  free  wings  of  the  air! 

Perchance,  Job  like,  my  foe  prays  too 

His  will  to  work  on  me  through  you, 

Or  literary  caste,  in  pride, 

Pass  you   undignified   aside, 

Or  even  that  count  as  common  herd, 

Be  in  your  praise  but  little  stirred; 

Yet  fate  whate'er  betideth  ye, 
You  still  are  precious  unto  me — 
Far  from  vain  pride  of  that  I  wrought, 
But  for  the  lesson  that  you  taught — 
For  as  a  touchstone  you  have  told 
Of  rated  friends  the  dross  from  gold, 

The  mere  alloy  of  friendship's  pose, 
Glossed  o'er  to  serve  with  feline  gloze, 
Base  coin  that  ne'er  yields  mite  of  meed 
To  pass  as  current  in  time  of  need, 
And  by  the  weather-vaned  shifter  scorned 
That  to  its  falseness  stands  suborned! 


How  elsewise  proved  your  test  the  true, 

When  for  your  sponsors. I  did  sue, 

Who,  though  unknowing  your  worth  and 

make, 

Ventured  on  trust  their  friendly  stake, 
And  from  their  far  set  course  stood  by 
A  future  in  rhyme  and  verse  to  buy ! 

Truly,  a  pay  streak,  scarce  would  start 
Tumultuous  bidding  on  'change  or  mart! 
For  this  materialist  age  esteems 
These  lyric  soothsays  just  mere  dreams, 
And   to  their  Muse  will  little  incline, 
And  were  they  hall-marked  even  "divine." 

Such  is  the  Fairy  of  your  tale 

That  bids  you  from  your  hearth-bound  pale, 

To  greet,  in  garments  fit  to  see, 

The  Court  of  Prince  Publicity; 

And  though  no  nuptials  mark  the  end, 

Yet  may  his  handclasp  hail  you  friend! — 

And,  friends,  whate'er  my  verses  rate, 

They're  to  your  graces  dedicate; 

Yet  might  you  deem  your  guerdon  small, 

Came  it  with  pledge  to  read  them  all; 

Enough,  if  random  reading  test 

Bear  inward,  reading  all  were  best! 


A    BIRTHDAY    ODE. 
To 

There  are  some  days  in  this,  our  earthly 
sphere, 

Which  memory  marks  above  all  others  dear, 

And  dearer  those  which  many  hearts  con- 
join 

In  festive  cheer  and  gladness  to  revere. 

No  higher  monument  to  human  worth 
Than    that,    though  ended  be  our  toil  on 

earth, 

Our  memory  still  unites  a  loving  world 
To  cherish  our  existence  from  its  birth. 

The  mighty  kings  high  pyramids  that  built, 
To  tell  of  misery  wrought,  of  blood  they 

spilt, 
What  of  their  name,   and  all  their  fame? 

What  song 
Of  joy  recalls  the  place  on  earth  they  filled  ? 

'Tis  but  a  fleeting  glory  ever  crowned 
The  conqu'ror's  brow;  far  more  enduring 

bound 
To  fame  are  they,  whose  noble  works  of 

peace 
In  blessings  to  humanity  abound. 

10 


Yet  few  are  wedded  to  eternal  fame; 
Our  memory  but  reflects  our  mundane  aim : 
We  live  as  long  as  living  mind  recalls, 
In   loving  thought,   our  birth,  our   worth, 
our  name. 

And  they,  whose  soulful  grace  in  thought 

and  deed 

To  emulating  zeal  doth  spur  and  speed, 
Live  well  their  lives,  their  days  on  earth 

are  dear, 
And  homage,  life  beyond,  their  fitting  meed. 

Rejoice!  't  would  seem  some  fairy  at  thy 

birth 
Bestowed   on   thee  that   boon  of  priceless 

worth, 
Since     many    long    to    win    thy    friendly 

thought, 
And   many   share   thy   grief,   thy  joy,   thy 

mirth. 

And  this,  thy  day  of  days  in  all  the  year, 
Beams  not  on  thee  in  solitary  cheer, 
But  bears  significance  to  many  hearts, 
That  hold  its  glad  recurrance  high  and  dear. 


11 


I  THOUGHT  OF  THEE. 

I    scaled    the    mountain    to    its    towering 

height, 

I  stood  upon  its  summit  forest  crowned, 
And  shaded  from  the  sun's  meridian  light, 
While  hushed  seemed  nature's  every  voice 

and  sound; 

I  was  where  solitude  held  potent  sway, 
Yet  were  my  thoughts  far,  far  away ; 
For  what  could  be  this  solitude  to  me 
Whose  thoughts  held  such  fair  company? 
I  thought  of  thee. 

I  found  myself  within  the  bustling  throng 
Whose  love  of  gain  renews  its  daily  strife, 
With  whom  deceit  and  falsehood  pass 

among 

The  usages  conventional  to  life; 
And  oft  this  wide  hypocrisy  had  wrought 
Its  painful  sting  to  all  my  thought, 
When  over  me  came  calm  serenity 
That  soothed  each  pulsing  thought  in  me ; 
I  thought  of  thee. 

There  is  no  joy  that  I  would  think  complete 
In  which  thy  gentle  essence  had  no  part, 
No  sorrow  that  I  would  not  braver  meet 
If  shared  in  by  thy  sympathetic  heart; 

12 


There  is  so  sweet  no  music  to  my  ear 
As  the  fond  accents  of  thy  loving  cheer; 
What  were  to  me  all  earth's  felicity, 
All  bliss,  though  of  eternity, 
If  not  with  thee! 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

From  the  German. 

Now  is  earth  in  heavenly  rest; 

Moon  and  stars  in  watchful  light 

O'er  a  slumb'ring  little  garden, 

On  the  earth  that  blossoms  bright. 

Blessed  night!     Good  night!     Good  night! 

By  a  cottage  in  the  garden 

Lindens  lift  their  shelt'ring  height; 

In  the  oriel  window,  watchful, 

Chimes  a  songbird  its  delight. 

Blessed  night!     Good  night!     Good  night) 

In  the  oriel  sleeps  a  maiden, 
Blossoms  are  her  dreamland  sight, 
In  her  heart  is  blissful  heaven, 
Watched  o'er  by  the  angels  bright. 
Blessed  night!     Good  night!     Good  night! 


13 


A  FLOWER  LIKE  SO  LOVELY. 

From  the  German  of  Heine. 

A  flower  like  so  lovely, 
So  pure  and  fair  thou  art; 
I  gaze  on  thee,  and  sadness 
Steals  deep  into  my  heart. 

I  feel  as  on  thy  dear  head 
I  should  lay  my  hands  in  pray'r, 
That  God  may  ever  keep  thee. 
So  sweet,  so  pure,  so  fair. 


Spring    Song. 
From  the  German  of  Heine. 

Gently  stirring  through  me,  ring 

Sounds  of  lovely  chimes; 

Tune  forth,  little  lay  of  spring, 

Wing  thy  lilting  rhymes ! 

Hie  thee  to  the  house,  where  grow 

Violets,  and  meeting 

On  the  way,  perchance,  a  rose, 

Say,  thou  bearst  my  greeting. 


14 


THE   LORELEI. 

From  the  German  of  Heine. 

T  know  not  the  reason,  why 
I  am  so  sad  and  gloomy; 
A  tale  of  ages  gone  by 
It  will  not  cease  to  pursue  me. 

Cool  comes  on  the  dusky  night, 
And  the  Rhine  flows  calmly  on, 
The  mountain  top  flames  alight 
In  the  glow  of  the  eventide's  sun. 

A  maiden  above  you  behold, 
Of  a  beauty  most  marvellous  rare, 
Her  jewels  rich  glitter  of  gold, 
She  combs  her  golden  hair. 

With  a  golden  comb — while  singing — 
Her  fairy  locks  combs  she, 
And  her  song  has  a  wonderful  ringing 
All  powerful  melody. 

The  lad  in  his  boat  feels  woe 
Wild  in  his  bosom  stir; 
He  heeds  not  the  cliffs  below, 
His  gaze  is  but  fastened  on  her. 

16 


I  ween  both  boat  and  man 
The  waters  swallow  ere  long; 
And  that  the  Lorelei  has  done 
With  her  bewitching  song. 


WANDERER'S    NIGHT    SONG. 

From  the  German  of  Goethe. 

Over  every  hill 

Rests  peace, 

Scarce  a  faint  thrill 

Breathe  to  you 

Shrouds  of  all  trees. 

The  birds  in  the  woods  end  their  song. 

Wait!  and  ere  long 

Rest  you,  too. — 


16 


ZULEIKA. 

Three  of  the  Songs  of  "Mirza  Shaffy." 
From  the  German  of  Bodenstaedt. 

I. 

Not  to  angels  in  the  blue  heavens  above 
Do  I  liken  Zuleika,  my  love; 
Nor  to  roses  the  fragrant  field  upon, 
Nor  the  light  of  the  eternal  sun. 

For  the  angels'  bosom  of  love  is  bare, 

And  roses  tell  of  thorns  to  beware, 

And  the  sun   hides  his  light,  when  night 

does  fall: — 
None  of  these  are  like  Zuleika  at  all. 

Nought  is  there,  in  all  the  world  around, 
To  equal  Zuleika  to  be  found : 
In   eternal   lovelight,  thornless  and  fair, 
She  can  with  herself  alone  compare. 


II. 

Thou  dost  adorn  my  heart,  as  does  the  sun 

the  heavens  adorn; 
Thou  art  its  light;  and  without  thee  it  lies 

in  darkness  all  forlorn; 

17 


As  does  the  world  its  splendor  hide,  when 
hides  the  sun  his  radiant  face, 

And  only  in  his  beaming  smiles  its  innate 
beauty  all  displays. 

III. 

The  song  I  sing  delights  the  girls, 
Whose  young  hearts  leap  with  pleasure, 
For  that  my  words  resemble  pearls 
Strung  on  a  thread  together; 

And  they  exhale  a  fragrancy, 
That  houris'  breath  has  scented, 
The  flowers  like  which  unto  me 
Zuleika  once  presented. 

Don't  wonder  that  in  words  so  fine 
My  thoughts  I  can  express, 
And  wisdom  here  doth  intertwine 
With  youthful  carelessness. 

Know  you  where  all  my  wisdom  lies, 
The  good  source  whence  it  stirred? 
I  read  it  all  out  of  her  eyes, 
And  then  I  gave  it  word. 

No  wonder  that  to  you  my  song 
So  lovely  seems  and  pretty : 
Is  not  the  tune  upon  my  tongue 
Mere  mirror  of  her  beauty? 

18 


Like  Dshemshid's  cup  of  ancient  lore, 
She's  a  source  of  revelation 
By  which  to  magic  realms  I  soar 
Of  wisdom  and  information. 

And  say,  does  not  abound  my  song 
In  music  wond'rous  sweet? 
Does  not  its  cadence  move  along 
Light  as  her  stepping  feet? 


19 


THE    KING   IN    THULE, 

From  the  German  of  Goethe. 

Was  once  in  Thule  a  king, 
True  even  until  his  grave, 
To  whom  his  love,  when  dying, 
A  golden  goblet  gave. 

Nought  did  he  hold  so  dear; 
He  drained  it  every  bout, 
In  his  eyes  a  gath'ring  tear, 
Whene'er  he  drank  thereout. 

And  when  death  came  to  call 
His  towns  he  counted  up, 
Nor  grudged  his  heir  them  all, 
Yet  gave  not  too  his  cup. 

In  royal  state  with  all 
His  knights  sat  feasting  he, 
Where  his  ancestral  hall 
Stood  towering  by  the  sea. 

There  the  old  wassailer  stood, 
Of  life-glow  drank  his  last, 
And  down  into  the  flood 
His  sacred  goblet  cast. 

He  saw  it  fall  and  fill, 
And  sink  deep  in  the  sea; 
Then   sank   his   eyes,   grown   still, 
Ne'er  another  drop  drank  he. 

20 


BERTRAN   DE  BORN. 

From  the  German  of  Uhland. 

On  yon  cliff,  a  smould'ring  ruin, 
Autafort  lies  desolate, 
And  before  the  king's  pavilion 
Halts  its  lord  in  captive  state. 

"Is  it  thou  whose  song  and  sword 
"Spread  afar  rebellious  fire? 
"Thou,  who  led  the  children  even 
"To  revolt  against  their  sire? 

"Stands  before  me  now  the  braggart, 
"His  presumptuous  boast  to  feed, 
"That  his  master  spirit  never 
"More  than  half  its  spirit  need? 

"Now  the  half  will  not  avail  thee, 
"Summon  all  thy  strength  of  mind, 
"To  rebuild  thy  ruined  castle, 
"Or  these  fetters  to  unbind !" — 

"True  thou  say'st  my  royal  master; 
"Here  thou  seest  Bertran  .de  Born, 
"Who  with  one  mere  song  enkindled 
"Perigor  and  Ventadorn, 

21 


"Who  stood  e'er  in  thy  displeasure, 
"As  a  thorn  within  thine  eye, 
"But  for  love  of  whom  thy  children 
"Thy   displeasure  could  defy! 

"In  her  hall  thy  royal  daughter 
"Sat;  a  ducal  bride,  in  splendor, 
"When  to  her  my  trusty  envoy 
"Did  entune  the  song  I  sent  her, 

"Sang,  what  once  she'd  deemed  her  glory, 
"All  her  poet's  love  and  sighing, 
"Till  her  tears  came  fast  and  faster, 
"And  her  gems  dimmed  with  her  crying. 

"From  his  olive  shades  of  pleasure 
"Thy  best  loved  son  arose, 
"When  with  stirring  strains  of  battle 
"I  broke  in  on  his  repose ; 

"Quick  his  warrior  steed  was  bridled, 
"And  our  banners  did  advance 
"On  to  Monfort's  fatal  towers, 
"Where  he  met  the  deadly  lance; 

"Bleeding  in  these  arms  I  held  him — 
"Not  the  pain  the  iron  wrought, — 
"That  thy  parent  curse  lay  on  him 
"Was  his  painful  dying  thought; 

22 


"Over  land  and  sea  his  right  hand 
"Fond  he  wished  to  lay  in  thine; 
"But    when    thine    he    vainly    reached    for, 
"In  last  pressure  he  held  mine. — 

"Then,  like  Autafort  above  me, 
"Was  my  spirit  broken, — slain  ! — 
"Not  its  whole,  its  half,  nor  part, 
"Neither  sword  nor  song  remain; 

"'Twas  not  hard  these  arms  to  shackle, 
"While  my  mind  was  thralled  and  dark, 
"But,  for  one  last  dying  dirge,  yet 
"May  it  gather  a  remnant  spark!" 

And  the  kingly  brow  is  lowered : 
"Thou  didst  lead  astray  my  son, 
"Didst  bewitch  my  daughter's  heart, 
"And  mine  also  now  hast  won, 

"Take  this  hand,  which  to  thy  dead  friend 
"Was  in  pard'ning  mercy  due, 
"Thou  art  free ;  of  thy  great  spirit 
"I  have  felt  an  atom,  too!" 


23 


THE   HERO    OF   MY    SONG. 

Not  in  the  pomp  and  panoply  of  war,  the 
strife, 

With  man's  destructive  craft  and  cruel  in- 
stincts rife; 

Not  where  mere  force  is  arbiter  unto  the 
strong, — 

Midst  common  plaudits — lives  the  hero  of 
my  song. 

Not   in   the  blazoned  vanity  of  wealth  or 

birth, 

Nor  sunny  path  of  envied  favorites  of  earth, 
But    in    the    roadway,    where    the    toiling 

masses  throng, 
In  harness  of  his  toil,  lives  the  hero  of  my 

song. 

Not  by  his  lineaments,  nor  haply  by  his 

name, 
Can  from  the  multitude  I  single  him  for 

fame: 

In  staid  obscurity  his  days  are  passed  along, 
Known  only  by  his  deeds,  well  worth  the 

poets'  song. 

24 


No  selfish  fears  intrude  to  stay  his  ready 
arm, 

When  human  cry  rings  out  for  help  from 
menaced  harm ; 

He'll  brave  more  dangers  than  to  battle- 
fields belong 

To  aid  distress,  nor  think  of  gain  or  fame 
or  song. 

Nor  think   to   stay   his   hastening   steps  to 

crying  need, 
And  weigh  its  kindred  unto  him  in  race  or 

creed ; 
But  there  is  only  one  humanity,  right  or 

wrong, 
When  comes  its  voice  unto  the  hero  of  my 

song. 

His  scars,  than  those  of  war  more  honor- 
able, bespeak 

What  manner  shield  it  was  he  held  above 
the  weak, 

When  heav'n  and  earth  with  wrath  of  angry 
elements  rung; 

He  tow'ring  over  all,  the  hero  of  my  song. 

There  comes  a  day,  when  some  appalling 

fate  or  chance 
For  many  lives  an  immolated  life  demands; 

25 


Then  see  him  starting  from  the  trembling 

herd  among, 
To  yield  his  sacrifice,    and    die    unknown, 

unsung. 

And  many  live,   cast  in  this   same  heroic 

mould, 
Not  in  destructive,  but  humane  impulsions 

bold. 
Ask  you,  what  angels  are  in  sacred  writ  or 

tongue? 
Behold  an  angel  man,  the  hero  of  my  song ! 


26 


CONVIVIAL    RHYMES. 

Come,    fill    your    cups    with    golden    wine, 
Choice  of  Sauterne,  Moselle  or  Rhine; 
And  for  a  space  the  cares  of  earth 
Dispel  in  right  convivial  mirth ! 

We  hold  no  fellowship  or  kin 
With  those  who  think  our  pleasures  sin; 
Nor  with  their  narrow  cloistered  soul 
That  fear  all  joy  leads  to  Sheol. 

Let  those  who  will  such  fancies  feed, 
\Ve  count  ourselves  of  different  creed, 
And  will  enjoy  this  passing  sphere, 
And  all  its  sunshine,  without  fear. 

Then,  let  such  smiling  jests  go  round, 
Such  chorused  melodies  resound, 
As  moderate  cup  will  ever  rouse, 
When  wit  and  grace  join  in  carouse. 

And  let  our  first  cup  homage  bear, 
In  trebled  cheers,  unto  the  fair; 
What  manly  worth  would  in  us  dwell 
Without  the  feminine  touch  and  spell? — 

27 


Come,  to  your  goblets  once  again, 
A  goodly  toast  well  to  sustain! 
Next  to  the  fair  what  fairer  sight 
Than  this  our  country  in  its  might? 

Whose  starry  ensign  you  may  see 
In  every  clime,  on  every  sea, 
In  blandishments  by  all  revered, 
Though  often  envied,  sometimes  feared. 

Yes !  for  the  land  we  all  hold  dear, 
This  brimming  cup,  with  lusty  cheer! 
No  rare  libations  ever  flowed 
As  these  of  ours  so  well  bestowed. 

To  friendship  next  a  hearty  round! 
I  like  the  word's  true  ringing  sound, 
Though  it's  a  name  full  many  employ 
For  its  base  coinage  of  alloy. 

Yet,  for  the  sterling  and  sincere! 
For  loyalty,  that  will  adhere, 
And  stand,  what  weather  may  betide, 
Firm  as  a  steadfast  beacon  guide! 

To  honesty  of  purpose,  too! 

No  matter  if  to  friend  or  foe ; 

To  honesty  in  war  or  peace! 

And  whether  it's  burdensome  or  please. 

28 


To  honest  truth  on  sober  tongue! 
To  bibulous,  too,  from  mean  lips  wrung! 
To  truth,  in  beauty  that  defies 
Convention's  rule  of  polished  lies! 

To  these  no  stint  of  measured  glass! 
Nor  shall  the  old  you  slighting  pass, 
Whose  sturdy  youth  in  locks  of  gray 
Will  chase  no  mirth  or  joy  away. 

Hark  to  the  church  bell  tolling  out 
The  hour  that  ends  our  merry  bout! 
To  steady  feet  and  steady  brain ! 
And  such  goodby  as  meets  again! 


ILLUSIONS. 
I. 

When  youth  still  sits  on  virginal  brow, 
And  life  and  pleasure  twin-born  seem, 
When  a  strange  longing  fills  the  soul, 
Like  the  enchantment  of  a  dream 

For  some  ideal  scarcely  known, 

Yet  fond  in  youthful  fancy  traced; 

Then    holds    that    spell    each    sense    and 

thought, 
Beneath  its  influence  captive  placed. 

As  shines  in  quaint  fantastic  light 
The  sun  into  some  church  or  fane, 
And  its  irradiance  reflects 
The  fancies  of  some  storied  pane. 

Then  love  is  kindled  into  flame, 

In  those  dark  longings  fanned  and  grown; 

And  as  the  hand  of  art  gives  shape 

And  form  of  beauty  to  some  stone, 

So  youth  the  object  of  its  love, 
Far  from  all  real  affinity, 
Moulds  in  the  beauty  of  its  dreams, 
In  semblance  of  divinity. 

30 


But  oh,  when  once  the  dreamer  wakes, 
And  these  fond  visions  pass  away, 
The  pain  that  idol  to  behold 
In  its  true  form  of  sordid  clay! 

II. 

Think  not  with  verdant  youth  the  term 
Of  your  illusions  quite  expires ! 
How  oft  you  fashioned  the  unknown 
In  image  of  your  known  desires! 

How  oft  your  reverence  and  dislikes 
You  start  to  find,  perhaps  with  pain, 
To  bear  all  merit  and  desert 
From  some  mere  shadow  of  your  brain ! 

How  oft,  with  seamed  and  furrowed  brow, 
The  passing  world  you  have  lonely  faced, 
Blind  to  all  beauty  you  behold 
With  eyes  alone  for  man  debased! 

How  you  exalt  your  trivial  self, 
With  vanity  your  flatt'ring  lens; 
And  for  your  meanest  deeds  assume 
Some  meaner  special  providence! 

How  all  your  nursery  tales  and  fears 
Still  serve  to  blanche  your  age  worn  face, 
From  fated  numerals,  dreams  and  spells 
To  luckless  time  or  haunted  space! 

31 


Then  let  your  pride  of  judgment  pause. 
What,  if  your  locks  are  scant  and  gray, 
Your  highest  wisdom  still  partakes 
Of  the  frail  nature  of  your  clay! 


REFLECTIONS. 

She  sits  within  her  rosy  bower; 
And  as  she  looks  into  the  glass, 
Her  love  of  self  reflects  a  flower 
That  none  in  beauty  can  surpass. 

And  all  who  see  her  in  that  hour 
Are  quite  agreed  in  that  reflection; 
For  rare  in  beauty  is  the  flour 
That  daily  makes  her  fine  complexion. 


32 


TWO   BROTHERS. 

Says    brother    Sharp,    in    overflowing    elo- 
quence, 

And  courtly  phrases  of  malignant  elegance, 
Whose  all  too  clear  intent  no  one  could  miss 

or  pass: 
"My    learned    brother    Cute,    I    think    I've 

proved  an  ass !" 
And  chen  he  wondered  everybody's  grin  and 

smile, 
Till  brother  Cute  arose  and  opened  in  this 

style : 
''You've  stated  well  your  side,  and  better 

p'rhaps  the  other, 
"When,  with  such  racial  pride,  you  prove 

an  ass  your  brother/' 


33 


JIM'S  VERDICT. 

Jim  Shady  stole  a  shote  one  day, 
And  with  it  safely  got  away, 
With  none  his  honesty  to  impeach, 
Or  even  suspect  his  wilful  breach 
Of  sacred  writ  and  written  laws ; 
And  his  good  wife  did  never  pause, 
Though  of  the  porcine  rape  she  knew, 
To  cook  and — help  to  eat  it,  too. 

Some  vagrant,   poor,  not  overfed, 
By  some  unlucky  chance  was  led 
Near  to  the  cote  Jim  had  so  used, 
And  of  the  robbery  stood  accused; 
And  what! — but  the  coincidence, 
When  the  accused,  in  his  defence, 
A  Court  and  Jury  had  to  face, 
Jim  on  the  Jury  in  that  case ! 

The  evidence  left  the  belief 

None  but  the  vagrant  was  the  thief; 

Shrewd  questions  had  been  hurled  at  him, 

(Not  least  of  these  by  our  friend  Jim) 

Ere  that  result  at  last  was  won ; 

And  spite  his  face,  starved  out  and  wan, 

That  showed  no  recent  feasting  time, 

They  found,  it  was  the  vagrant's  crime. 

34 


Jim's  wife,  though  to  her  moral  sense 

To  steal  a  pig  seemed  no  offence, 

Was  yet  a  good  soul,  it  appears, 

And  the  event  moved  her  to  tears. 

"O  Jim,"  she  wailed,  in  sad  appeal, 

"You  knew  the  poor  man  did  not  steal, 

"If  others  saw  the  thief  in  him, 

"O,  how  could  you,  how  could  you,  Jim!" 

Quoth  Jim,  untroubled,  "I  but  obeyed 
''The  Judge's  charge,  in  which  he  said: 
'You're  not  to  know,  think  or  suppose, 
'But  what  the  evidence  doubtless   shows.' 
"How  could  I,  then,  but   spurn  and  scorn 
"What  wasn't  in  evidence  duly  sworn? 
"My  verdict  was,  to  my  best  sense, 
"According  to   the   evidence!" 


35 


ILLSTAR'S   FORTUNE. 

From  the  German  of  Uhland. 

Illstar,  that  good-mannered  boy, 
Met  with  fortune  passing  strange, 
Many  achievements'  well  earned  joy 
Might  have  been  within  his  range; 
Ev'ry  lucky  constellation 
Might  have  lit  his  path  on  earth, 
Had  one  hour's  procastination 
Not  deferred  his  time  of  birth. 

Martial  glory  he  had  won, 
Honors,  such  as  heroes  share, 
For  'mong  many  warriors  none 
Ready  as  he  to  do  and  dare; 
But  when,  in  impetuous  passage, 
He  was  leading  the  attack, 
Came  of  peace  the  sudden  message, 
And  the  signal  to  fall  back. 

Lo !  his  tale  of  love  is  told, 
But,  the  wedding  day  in  sight, 
The  parental  love  of  gold 
Finds  the  lass  some  richer  wight. — 
Still  he  might,  glad  and  forgiving, 
Even  his  widowed  love  have  wed, 
Had  not  suddenly  turned  up  living 
He  she  just  had  mourned  as  dead. 

36 


Untold  wealth  had  been  his  own, 
Gain  of  toil  in  some  new  world, 
Had  near  port  not  weather  blown 
Which  his  craft  to  wreckage  hurled. 
By  good  luck  the  waves  he  breasted, 
Clinging  to  some  tossing  plank, 
And  had  safety  reached,  he  trusted, 
When  swept  back  to  sea  he  sank. 

He  had  gone,  beyond  all  cavil, 
Straight  to  heaven,  in  bliss  to  stay, 
Had  not  then  some  stupid  devil 
Run  across  him  on  the  way; 
For  some  damned  soul  mistaken, 
With  the  imp  he  had  to  go, 
Seized  by  force,  and  rudely  shaken, 
Toward  the  pit  of  wail  and  woe. 

Then  an  angel,  clothed  with  grace, 
Come,  this  soul  to  save  and  keep, 
Hurls    the    ugly    fiend    through    space 
Into  Hades'  yawning  deep; 
Leads  to  happy  destination 
Illstar  'mong  the  heavenly  blessed, 
Where  no  fatal  constellation 
Ever  will  disturb  his  rest. 


37 


AT  THE  BROOK. 

Let  thy  soul  be  like  yon  limpid  mountain 

rill, 

Dallying  with  fragrant  marge  upon  its  way 
Never  in  its  tossing  undulations  still, 
Like  so  many  nayads  in  some  frolic  play; 
Let  thy  thoughts  run  onward  so 
In  unbridled  constant  flow 
Of  delightful  sentiment  in  beauty  seen, 
Ever  lively,  too,  appear, 
With  such  gay  and  playful  cheer 
As  these  waters,  and  as  pure  and  crystalline. 

Let  thy  soul  be  like  yon  tuneful  mountain 

rill, 

That  in  cadence  never  varied  never  wrong 
Sends  its  rhythmic  music  slope  adown  and 

hill, 

Like  a  harp  attuned  to  lark  or  linnet's  song ; 
Let  in  tones  as  sweet  and  choice 
Sound  the  music  of  thy  voice, 
In  accord  with  language  mellow  to  the  ear, 
And  in  changeful  symphony 
That  one  message  bring  to  me 
Of  thy  love,  eternal  as  yon  stellar  sphere. 


38 


O  LOVE  AS  LONG  AS  THOU  CANST 
LOVE. 

From  the  German  of  Freiligrath. 

O  love  as  long  as  thou  canst  love! 
O  love,  while  love  thy  heart  yet  craves ! 
There  comes  an  hour,  there  comes  an  hour, 
That  finds  thee  mourning  over  graves. 

And  foster  in  thy  heart  the  glow 
Of  love  and  loving  sympathy, 
So  long  as  beats  another  heart 
In  warmth  of  tender  love  for  thee. 

And  whoso  opened  his  soul  to  thee 
O  let  thy  kindest  be  his  gain ! 
And  make  each  hour  of  his  more  glad, 
Nor  any  mar  with  grievous  pain. 

And  guard  thy  tongue  from  hasty  speech; 

And   angry  word  in   passion's   sway 

O,  God!  it  was  not  meant  in  harm, 
But  grieved  the  other  turns  away. 

O  love  as  long  as  thou  canst  love ! 
O  love,  while  love  thy  heart  yet  craves ! 
There  comes  an  hour,  there  comes  an  hour, 
That  finds  thee  mourning  over  graves. 

39 


Then  in  the  churchyard  bend  thy  knees, 
While  from  thine  eyes  the  hot  tears  start — 
Thou'lt  never  see  the  other  more 
That  rests  beneath  this  humid  sward. 

Then   sayest  thou :   "O   look   on   me" 
"Who  at  .thy  grave  weeps  in  lament !" 
"Forgive  I  ever  gave  thee  pain !" 
"O  God!     No  harm  I  ever  meant." 

But  he  nor  sees,  nor  hears  thy  plaint, 
Comes  not  to  meet  thy  fond  embrace; 
The  lips  that  kissed  thee  ne'er  again 
Will  sound  the  strain  of  pard'ning  grace. 

Yet  he  forgave  long  long  ago; 

Though  many  a  burning  tear  had  run, 

For  thee  and  thy  unkindness  shed. 

But,  hush!    He  rests.    His  course  is  done. 

O  love  as  long  as  thou  canst  love ! 
O  love,  while  love  thy  heart  yet  craves! 
There  comes  an  hour,  there  comes  an  hour, 
That  finds  thee  mourning  over  graves. 


40 


GREATNESS. 

Seek   not   true   greatness   in   the  deceptive 

glare 

That  follows  those  their  satellites  hail  great, 
Nor  in  the  gilded  halls  they  habitate 
Whose  merit  all  is,  being  someone's  heir; 
Nor  where  pretentious  dignity,  in  state, 
Exacts  its  rule  of  glitter  and  'display, 
And  feudal  honors  that  have  known  their 

day, 
And  martial  pomp,  the  pride  of  birth  elate; 

Nor  where  relentless  craft  and  cunning  fight 
Keen  traffic's  battles  for  life  and  affluence, 
Whose  slain  o'erreach  grim  war's  of  vio- 
lence, 

Those  myriad  slain  of  no  heroic  rite! — 
Where  is  no  fitness  and  no  excellence, 
Unless  the  stake  of  chance  it  may  allure, 
Nor  sentiment  that  counts  as  high  or  pure 
Not  pleached  with  pelf  in  all  its  aim  and 
sense ; 

Nor  where  from  Themis'  seat  King  Mam- 
mon reigns, 

And  law  and  order  and  their  ruling  force, 
In  conscious  might,  as  though  his  servitors, 
Defies  whenever  challenged,  and  disdains, 

41 


And  from  the  very  fount  of  life,  the  source 
Of  sustenance,  by  foul  pact  seized  upon, 
As  lawless  rovers  might  of  ages  gone, 
The  ransom  of  distress  and  misery  scores; 

Nor  where   ambition,   and   its   schemes  of 

greed, 

Proclaim  their  cant  and  sounding  platitude 
Before  the  variant  sovereign  multitude, 
For  dignities  within  its  gift  to  plead ; 
Where  flaunts  its  shame  official  turpitude. 
And,   while  with  high   resolve  the  patriot 

stirs, 

Aims  but  to  swell  with  venal  gold  its  purse, 
And    proudly   holds   as   honest   wealth   its 

loot; 

Nor  where  in  death  and  desolation  writes 
Mankind  its  roll  of  heroes,  idol  fane 
Rears  to  its  Cesar  or  its  Tamerlane, 
And  greatest  homicides  for  greatness  cites; 
Nor  where,  such  patterned  glory  to  attain, 
Shrewd-planning  valor  smites  a  valiant  foe, 
And  earns,  with  victory's  emblazoned  show, 
The  sting  of  envy  and  detractions  bane; 

Nor  where  the  tenets  of  a  peaceful  creed 
The  fire  and  sword  of  conquest  ill  disguise, 
And  unrude  savages  to  civilize, 
Brute  culture  revels  in  more  than  savage 
deed : 

42 


Where  armaments,  fierce,  threatening,  em- 
phasize 

The  false  profession  of  a  faith  of  love, 
The  vanity,  that  holds  its  creed  above 
All  other  creeds,  haply  as  good  and  wise; 

Nor  where   ideals   the   common   sense  en- 
shrined, 

To  morbid  dictates  of  delusion  grown, 
The  reason  of  the  multitude  dethrone, 
And  blind  fanaticism  leads  the  blind ; 
Where   tyrants,    massed,   atrocious    crimes 

condone, 

And  in  the  name  of  honor,  creed  or  race, 
The  birthright  of  humanity  disgrace, 
And    conflagrations    light,    where    hearth- 
flame  shone. 

But  where  the  uncrowned  masters  of  their 

time 
To  crowned  and  mitered  tyrants  on  their 

throne, 

To  tyrant  masses,  dared,  in  thunder  tone, 
Denounce  their  inhumanity  and  crime, 
And  made  the  rights  of  man  and  freedom 

known ; 
Where  yet  this  impulse,    in    stout    hearts 

aflame, 

Leads  from  mere  sordid  ways  to  higher  aim, 
There  for  true  greatness  place  thy  pantheon. 

43 


There    place    the    martyrs    in    humanity's 

cause 
Beside    the    conquerors    in    the    realm    of 

thought, 
Who     unto     darkness     light     and     reason 

brought, 
And    misty    visions    resolved    in    nature's 

laws; 
The    savants,   too,   whose    midnight-labors 

sought 

The  mysteries  of  human  ills  and  pains, 
And    febrile    terrors    banished    or    laid    in 

chains, 
And  miracles  of  skill  and  science  wrought. 

There  place  the  charity  whose  ample  sphere 
Owns  the  wide  universe  its  fatherland, 
And  even  in  battle-fires,  by  hatred  fanned, 
Brings  love,  in  helpful  ministrations,  near; 
And  where  ambition  and  patriotism  blend 
In  deeds  not  flatt'ry  merely  voices  great, 
Where  seemly  justice  rules,  immaculate, 
There    place    a    crown    beyond    all    vision 
grand ! 


44 


CRIME  AND   HYPOCRISY. 

No  higher  stands  in  diabolic  grace, 
Of  all  that  panders  to  its  fiendish  glee, 
Than  evil,  coming  with  benignant  face 
And  honied  venom  of  hypocrisy. 

There  is  no  crime  that  loud  its  presence 

cries, 

Or  turns  a  willing  face  unto  the  light, 
Or  fails  to  yield,  in  ill  assumed  disguise, 
Unconscious  tribute  to  the  cause  of  right; 

But  of  all  wrongs,  that  whose  unblushing 

shame, 
With    hymns    of    joy    and    sanctimonious 

pray'r, — 
Though  dyed  in  human  blood — dares  still 

proclaim 
Its  foulness  virtue,  stands  without  compare. 

So  came  whileere,  with  blessings  that  blas- 
pheme, 

The  Christian  conqueror  with  fire  and  sword 

To  peaceful  shores  and  quiet  vale  and 
stream, 

To  kill  and  ravish, — in  honor  of  the  Lord. — 


46 


So  with  intolerant  zeal, — in  Allah's  name, 
A  ghastly  trail  of  gore  to  mark  his  way, 
To  fateful  battles  the  cruel  moslem  came, 
As  prompt  to  pray, — as  ruthlessly  to  slay. — 

So  Christian  rose  a  Christian  foe  to  smite, 
And  of  his  creed  held  deadly  argument, 
That  deemed  the  heretic  at  the  stake  a  sight 
To  Heaven  gracious  as  a  sacrament. 

So  the  anarchic  rabble,  whose  reason  lies 
In  fevered  passion,  hastens  to  defame 
The  even  rule  of  Justice  it  defies, 
By  crowning  murder  with  that  sacred  name ; 

And  ever  will  the  common  herd  condone 
Iniquity  whose  grasping  reach  is  strong 
Mean  wealth   to  filch,  or  power  usurp  or 

throne, 
And  even  will  glorify  triumphant  wrong. 

But  what's  that  God  but  cruelty  deified 
Who  human  sacrifice  would  not  abhor? 
What  god  is  there  but  brutal  force,  to  guide 
That    licensed    homicide  that  man  named 
war? 

And  is  that  crime  not  more  atroce  by  far 
That  flaunts  itself  before  the  silenced  law, 
Than  that  which  hides  from  gyve  and  prison 

bar, 
And  holds  the  halter  in  salutary  awe? — 

46 


But  Justice  comes,  its  presence  though  de- 
layed, 

Hailed  with  the  homage  of  the  universe ; 

And  boundless  wrong  must  bow  its  brazen 
head 

Before  that  mightiest  of  all  conquerors, 

For  legions  will  be  at  her  bidding  call, 
And  might   shall   not  be  right,  nor  grace 

confer 

On  those  she  cites  into  her  judgment  hall, 
To  high  and  low  the  even  arbiter. — , 


47 


THE   ERLKING. 

From  the  German  of  Goethe. 

Through  night  and  through  wind  so  late 

who  fares? 

It's  the  father  with  the  child  of  his  cares. 
He  has  the  boy  well  clasped  in  his  arm, 
He  holds  him  securely,  he  keeps  him  warm. 

Why  hidest  so  anxious  thy  face,  my  son? 
Dost,  father,  not  see  the  Erlking  yon? 
The  Erlking,  with  crown  and  with  trailing 

shroud  ? — 
My  son,  it's  a  streak  of  misty  cloud ! 

O  come,  sweet  child,  away  with  me! 
Such  pretty  plays  I'll  play  with  thee! 
Gay  flowers  amany  are  on  the  shore, 
My  mother  of  vestments  hath  golden  store. 

My  father,  my  father!  and  dost  thou  not 

hear 

The  bidding  of  Erlking  breathed  in  my  ear? 
Be  easy,  my  child !  still  rest  thee  at  ease ! 
In  seared  leaves  whispers  the  soughing 

breeze. 

48 


Art  willed,  fine  boy,  to  go  with  me? 
My  daughters  shall  wait  on  thee  daintily; 
My  daughters  at  night  their  gay  revels  keep, 
And  rock  thee,  and  dance  thee,  and  sing 
thee  to  sleep. 

My  father,  my  father!  and  dost  thou  not 

mark 
The  daughters  of   Erlking  there  where  it 

looms  dark? 

My  son !  I  see  it  as  clear  as  the  day ! 
They're  just  some  old  willows  that  look  so 

gray. 

I  love  thee!     I  covet  this  beauty  of  thine  I 
And  art  thou  unwilling?  then  force  makes 

thee  mine! 

My  father!  now  fastens  on  me  his  arm, 
Erlking  has  hurt  me,  has  brought  me  harm ! 

The  father's  aghast ;  he  hastens  on  wild ; 
He  holds  in  his  arms  the  sore-sobbing  child ; 
At  last  to  his  home  he  had  labored  and  sped ; 
But  in  his  arms  the  child  .      .  'twas  dead. 


49 


GOD   BE   WITH   THEE!     FATE   DID 
NOT  WILL  IT  SO. 

From  the  German  of  Scheffel. 

That  is  the  harsh  condition  life  imposes, 
That  where  the  roses  bloom  thorns  are  near- 

by. 

And  what  our  poor  heart  wishes  or  proposes, 
It's  bound  to  end  with  partings  and  good-by ; 
I  once  saw  in  thine  eyes  the  radiant  sheen, 
That  took  from  love  and  happiness  its  glow, 
God  be  with  thee !  Too  nice  it  all  had  been, 
God  be  with  thee,  fate  did  not  will  it  so! 

With  grief  and  hate  and  envy  I  have  striven, 
A  storm-tossed  weary  wand'rer  spent  and 

worn, 

I  dreamt  of  peace  in  restful  moments  given, 
When  found  my  striving  path  in  thee  its 

bourne ; 

Thy  love  my  healing  balm  I  fond  did  ween, 
Glad  unto  thee  life's  gratitude  to  owe, 
God  be  with  thee !    Too  nice  it  all  had  been, 
God  be  with  thee,  fate  did  not  will  it  so! 

50 


Clouds  roll  above,  through  trees  the  wind 

blows  sweeping, 
Chill  spreads  a  mist  o'er  field  and  wood  its 

dew, 
With    such    farewells    a    weather    just    in 

keeping, 
Drear  as  the  mist  the  world  looks  to  my 

view; 

But  come  what  may!  or  good  or  ill  evene, 
To  thee,  fair  maid,  my  thoughts  shall  ever 

go! 

God  be  with  thee !    Too  nice  it  all  had  been, 
God  be  with  thee,  fate  did  not  will  it  so ! 


61 


THE   GAUNTLET. 

From  the  German  of  Schiller. 

Before  the  lion  court, 
Expectant  of  the  sport, 
King  Francis  sat  one  day; 
His  lords  sat  around  him  nigh, 
And  about,  on  a  balcony  high, 
The  ladies  in  fair  array. 

And  the  fray  as  he  beckons  to  start, 

The  wide  den  opens  apart, 

And  out,  in  a  hesitant  walk, 

A  lion  doth  stalk, 

And  without  a  sound 

Looks  around, 

Yawning  amain, 

And  shaking  his  mane, 

Stretching  limb  and  bone, 

And  anon  lies  prone. 

And  the  king  signs  again; 

And  open  starts 

A  second  keep, 

Out  which  a  tiger  darts, 

Coming  along  wild  in  a  leap ; 

52 


As  he  the  lion  does  sight 

Roars  he  with  might, 

And  with  lashing  tail  marks 

Around  him  dread  arcs, 

And  lolls  forth  his  tongue; 

And  wary  around 

The  lion  he  doth  bound, 

Irate  and  snarling ; 

And  thereupon,  gnarling, 

Near  by  lies  down. 

And  the  king  signs  again; 

Then  emits  the  doubly  opened  up  hold, 

At  one  single  throw  two  leopards  bold. 

These  throw  themselves  eager  as  for  a  feast 

On  the  tiger  beast ; 

That  answers  grim  with  its  deadly  paws; 

And  the  lion  roaring  upbounds, 

Then  cease  all  sounds; 

And  round  about  lined, 

To  murder  inclined, 

The  dreadful  cats  rest  and  pause. 

Just  then,  from  the  gallery  above, 

Of  dainty  hand  a  glove 

May  falling  be  seen 

The  lion  and  tiger  between; 

And    to    knight    Delorges,    with    mocking 

tongue, 
Turns  Kunigunda  fair: 

53 


Sir  knight!  if  your  love  be  so  strong, 

As  e'er  to  me  you  will  swear, 

Then  bring  my  glove  to  me! 

And  the  knight,  with  alacrity, 

To  the  fearful  pit  doth  descend, 

With  firm  step  and  mien, 

And  from  the  monsters  between 

Takes  he  the  glove  with  daring  hand. 

And  astounded,  and  with  awe, 
The  feat  the  knights  and  the  ladies  saw. 
And  calmly  he  carries  back  the  glove, 
And  plausive  cheers  upon  him  pour, 
And  Kunigunda  receives  him  above, 
Her  eyes  lit  up  with  the  light  of  love, 
And  yielding  pledge  to  its  charming  power. 

But  he  throws  the  gauntlet  into  her  face: 
Lady,  for  this  no  thanks  nor  grace ! 
And  he  leaves  her  that  self  same  hour. 


64 


A  THANKSGIVING  TALE. 

It  is  a  day  of  pleasure,  gay  pursued 

By  healthful  life  that  brims   with   joy   and 

mirth ; 

It's,  too,  a  day  of  prayerful  gratitude 
For  heaven's  gifts  to  pious  souls  on  earth; 
The  heaven  itself  has  donned  a  festive  air, 
And  bracing  breezes  fan  the  world  below, 
As  though  to  chase  away  all  human  care 
Of  pending  sorrow,  or  of  bygone  woe. 

The  halls  of  wealth  and  plenty  glad  prolong 
Their   festive   cheer   this   day   of   many    a 

course, 
Whose    foreign    art    disdains    our    native 

tongue, 
With  spice  of  words  to  rouse  spice  loving 

maws; 

And  every  viand  has  its  liquid  peer 
In  costly  vintage  of  a  regal  hoard, 
Whose  mellowed  age  exceeds  by  many  a 

year 
The  prime  of  later  manhood  at  this  board. 

66 


In  homes  of  toil  rules  too  the  festive  day, 
Though  luxury  here  more  modestly  defined, 
Nor  can  scant  wealth  drive  homely  cheer 

away, 

Where  flavors  all  a  well  contented  mind; 
Here  sits  frugality  in  healthful  grace, 
While  lay-skilled  art  its  tuneful  spirit  lends 
To  cheer  these  sturdy  children  of  their  race, 
Whose  hearts  are  soft  in  love,  though  hard 

their  hands. 

The    penal    slaves,    what    heinous    sin    be 

theirs, 
Are  taught,  by  milder  rule,  to  know  this 

day, 

Which  of  its  blessings  unto  them  not  spares, 
Coming  with  gifts  like  a  benignant  fay; 
And  charity  has  opened  wide  its  stores, 
And  gives  to  all  who  meekly  come  and  ask ; 
And  neither  bars  unto  real  need  its  doors, 
Nor  unto  beggar's  craft  in  misery's  mask. 

The  day  is  nearly  spent,  and  sable  night 
Begins  to  gather  earth  within  its  fold. 
I  see  a  wand'rer  looming  into  sight 
Who  moves  with  feeble  footsteps  as  one  old ; 
Yet  are  his  years  not  those  of  man's  decline, 
His  should  be  manhood  of  its  palmiest  day, 
But  struggling  life,  that  for  its  needs  must 
pine, 

56 


Runs   quick   its    course,   too    soon   to   fade 
away. 

His  face  is  famine's,  in  its  ghastly  hue, 

Yet  may  you  see  there  too  unbending  pride 

That  shuns  its  misery  to  bring  to  view, 

And  tries  its  threadbare  poverty  to  hide; 

But  poverty  and  pride  ill  only  mate 

To  overcome  the  snags  and  drifts  of  life, 

And  pride,  though  it  adorn  the  strong  arid 

great, 
Is  but  to  misery  with  mis'ry  rife. 

Those   who,  with   craven   soul   and   abject 

sense, 

Are  prone  to  fawn  on  affluent  vanity, 
Obsequious  vassals  of  fair  circumstance, 
Go  plumed  through  life  in  their  hypocrisy; 
Those  who,  obtuse  to  every  sense  but  gain, 
Join  in  the  chaffering  mellee  and  strife, 
And  in  the  war  of  wiles  their  wit  sustain, 
Are  well  equipped  to  reap  the  spoils  of  life ; 

They    who    with    steady    mind    their    task 

pursue, 

And  honest  effort  bring  to  honest  hire, 
In  fortune's  every  turn  staunch,  tried  and 

true, 

Gain  measurably  the  reach  of  their  desire ; 
Some,   too,   though   scant  with   native   wit 

supplied, 

67 


Find  wealth  and  honor  unto  them  advance, 
And,  hailed,  within  their  glitt'ring  chariots 

ride, 
The  pampered  minions  of  fortune's  chance. 

But  there  are  those  with  souls  too  finely 

strung, 

Fit,  like  a  lute,  to  charm  in  gentle  hands, 
But  jarring,  in  the  contact  of  the  throng, 
When  ruder  touch  their  harmony  offends; 
They're  not  adept  to  gloze  in  phrasing  play, 
Or  court  deceit  to  follow  fortune's  train, 
But  let  the  edge  of  truth  fall  as  it  may, 
When    smould'ring    thoughts    their    blazing 
outburst  gain. 

They,    in    unworldly    pride    of    conscious 

worth, 

Scorn  to  the  narrow  spirit  to  descend 
That  hedges  in  their  dole  of  place  on  earth, 
Unfit  to  make  necessity  their  friend, 
Even  as  a  captive  eagle,  aery-born, 
With  might  of  pinions  to  cleave  the  sky, 
The  limitless  empyrean  doth  mourn, 
To  pine  and  grieve,  and  with  repining  die. — 

Is  this  the  lesson  that  thy  footsteps  trace 
Upon  the  lonely  pavement's  fading  light? 
Is  this  the  story  of  thy  famished  face, 
O  weary  wand'rer  of  my  dreamy  sight? 

58 


And  can  it  be  that  wholesouled  verity, 
Hymned  in  all  fanes  as  pledge  of  lasting 

bliss, 

Is  in  the  world  mere  insagacity, 
Joined  with  such  meed  of  misery  as  this? 

And  is  there  surfeit  to  satiety, 
And  is  the  ample  board  to  many  spread, 
Does  law  and  order  of  society 
Give  even  to  infamy  its  daily  bread, 
And  is  there  for  the  wily  mendicant, 
For  those  who  meek  their  rags  of  woe  re- 
veal, 

But  not  one  shred  or  show  of  sentiment 
For    suff'ring    pride    that    cannot    beg    or 
steal ? — 

Lo,  answer  comes!     A  woman  holds   my 

sight, 

Most  charming  sample  of  a  handsome  race ; 
Her  bright  mind  shines,  in  liquid  eyes  alight, 
And  mercy's  self  could  have  no  kinder  face ; 
She  leads  a  girl,  her  infant  counterpart, 
Whose  sweet  eyes  roam  about  in  childish 

quest, 

That  forms  in  riddles  to  tax  her  lore  and  art, 
When  on  the  famished  waif  at  last  they  rest. 

A  touch,  a  word,  a  look  that  understands — 
And  human  pity  hastes  to  human  need, 
Intent  to  give  with  helpful  lavish  hands  ; 

59 


Yet  is  her  deed's  intent  but  ill  to  speed, 
For  wasted  nature  snaps  its  vital  strings, 
And  ere  she  reaches    him    death    has    its 

own. — 

Too  soon  the  law  the  final  curtain  rings 
On  one  in  death  named  friendless  and  un- 
known. 

O,  was  not  this  grim  irony  of  fate, 
That  in  the  rule  of  feasting  all  around, 
In  sight  of  charity  that  came  so  late, 
Death   should   in   fere   of   hunger  thus   be 

found ! 

Think  not  this  tale  is  all  of  fancy's  play, 
Know  it  of  life  in  stern  reality: 
'Twas  told  in  all  the  chronicles  of  the  day, 
For  pity  less  than  singularity. 

They  found  upon  him,  wrapt  in  many  a  fold, 
What  seemed  his  wealth,  kept  with  a  miser's 

fears : 

A  tiny  script,  in  fading  ink  and  old, 
It  spoke  of  love  and  bore  the  stain  of  tears. — 
Someone  may  mourn ;  and  if  that  heart  be 

dead, 

Though  thine  be  only  a  forgotten  grave, 
Thy  worthier  self,  perchance,  may  here  be 

read — 
Then  be  thine  epitaph  this  plaintive  stave! 


60 


MUSIC. 

From  the  German. 

Whoever  lonely  views  life's  scenic  round, 

And  knows,  by  aching  void,  what  made  it 
dear, 

How  thrills  his  heart  with  some  harmonious 
sound 

Of  youthful  days  that  strikes  the  hark'ning 
ear! 

Thy  life  inspiring  breath,  O  gentle  strain, 

Wakes  worlds  of  thought  that  long  had  dor- 
mant been ! 

And  tear-dimmed  eyes  begin  to  smile  again, 

While  parting  clouds  reveal  a  brow  serene. 

( 

Mild   zephyrs,   that    with   fragrant   flowers 

played 

In  Orient  gardens  of  eternal  Spring, 
Still  spread,  though  even  every  flower  fade, 
Their  memory  afar  with  scented  wing. 
So    does    the   breath    of    music    quick'ning 

raise 

To  memory  vanished  dreams  of  happiness; 
So  does  the  simple  lay  of  better  days 
The  joy  that  gave  it  voice  bring  back  to  us. 

61 


O  might  of  music !  words  are  only  weak, 
Though    clarion-toned,    where    swells    thy 

symphony, 
Though  from  the  soul  the  silv'ry  tongue 

may  speak, 

The  soul  itself  outpours  itself  in  thee! 
Oft  meant  deceit  what  words  had  owned  a 

friend, 
And    love's    professions    meant    its    fatal 

blight; 

But  there's  no  heart  that  music  will  offend, 
And  many  a  heart  that  music  will  delight. 


62 


THE  MUSE  OF  THE  DANCE. 

I  do  not  come  in  the  garments  of  sorrow, 

Others  may  mingle  the  sad  with  the  gay ; 
Mine   are   the   moments   that  think   of  no 
morrow, 

Joy  is  with  me  as  the  Sun  with  the  day. 
Wisdom  and  folly  alike,  in  devotion, 

Baseness,  benignity,  smiling  advance, 
Under  my  magic  in  rhythmic  emotion, 

Votaries  all  to  the  Muse  of  the  Dance. 

Mine  is  the  youth  of  perennial  pleasure, 
All,  though  untaught,  share  the  gift  of  my 

art; 
Age   becomes   youth   at   the   sound  of  my 

measure. 

As  of  the  fountain  of  life  it  had  part. 
Beauty  and  grace,  in  their  rarest,  assemble, 
Lithesomeness  with  them,  their  charms  to 

enhance, 

Even  the  rustic  aims  grace  to  resemble — 
Come   they   to   honor   the   Muse   of   the 
Dance. 

63 


Wide  as  the  earth  is,  it  yields  me  allegiance, 

Where  in  the  icy  north  labor's  rest  came ; 

Where   follows   heart's   ease   in   sun-fervid 

regions, 
Every  tongue  accents  with  gladness  my 

name. 
Light  of  foot  come  they,  true  freedom  in 

motion, 
Happiness    suiting   their    steps    to    their 

glance ; 

Come  as  in  radiance  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 
Under  the  spell  of  the  Muse  of  the  Dance. 

Love  is  my  dwelling,  and  light  is  my  essence, 
Ever  since  time  dawned  with  man  I  did 

fare; 

I  led  of  old  the  devout  to  the  presence, 
Measuring  their  footfall  to  chant  and  to 

prayer. 
What,    though    a    narrower    creed    fail    to 

cherish 
Fleet-footed  mirth,  where  its  nimble  tread 

chance ! 

Not  'till  the  last  of  the  race  of  man  perish 
Knows  man  the  last  of  the  Muse  of  the 
Dance. 

Not  of  proud  eagles,,  their  sky  soaring  pin- 
ions, 
Not  gaudy  plumage  of  strutting  pavones, 

64 


Equal  the  wings  that  I  bring  to  my  minions, 
Fashioned    by    music    of    flight    fledging 

tones. 

What  is  rude  strength  to  the  soul's  inspira- 
tion? 

What  can  of  beauty  the  spirit  entrance 
Higher,  than  music  in  rich  intonation, 
Paragon  unto  the  Muse  of  the  Dance? 


65 


A  BIOGRAPHY. 

His  paternal  descent,  far  from  sure,  might 

be  said  to  be  rather  obscure ; 
His    maternal,    'twas    certain    much    more, 

could  not  trace  matrimonial  tenure. 
He  was  born,  it  sufficeth  to  say;  though 

some  wicked  tongues  told,  that  about 
His  mysterious  parent  his  known  one  was 

herself  even  strangely  in  doubt; 
But  her  motherly  love  for  her  boy  could 

have  hardly  been  called  into  question, 
Though  of  soap  and  of  water  quite  often  he 

showed  only  the  faintest  suggestion. 
He  was  never  admired  for  his  beauty,  or 

weighed  at  his  birth  like  a  hog; 
For  his  face?  It  had  freckles  all  over,  and  his 

nose  you'd  decide  was  a  pug. 

He  was  never  a  paragon  infant,  as  the  phrase 

is  of  many  a  brood ; 
But  one  trait  he  developed  quite  early :  that, 

to  seize  upon  all  that  he  could. 
There  was  scarce  an  itinerant  vender  of  the 

succulent  ware  of  the  street 

66 


That  accursed  not  his  filching  young  fingers, 
in  their  league  with  the  nimblest  of 
feet; 

And  it  may  p'rhaps  be  mentioned  in  passing 
that  this  youthful  rapacity  grew, 

With  the  growth  of  his  years,  to  acquire- 
ment of  the  spoils  of  a  much  larger 
view; 

His  elusive  talent  he  likewise  to  such  a  per- 
fection once  brought, 

Thas  his  honesty  held  the  presumption  that 
depends  upon  not  being  caught. 

He  had  also  the  merriest  of  humor :  he  would 

ring  (and  then  run  out  of  harm) 
For  some  servant  to  answer  the  door  bell, 

and  to  swear  at  the  false  alarm; 
He  would  make  a  gay  raid  on  the  ash  cans 

that  were  waiting  the  city  carts'  round, 
When  the  ashes  in  fine  independence  of  the 

rule  of  their  cans  would  be  found. 
But  in  snow  storms  in  real  sport  he  revelled, 

and  with  pleasure  was  fairly  agog, 
His  artillery  to  ply  on  all  passers,  most  of 

all  on  what  he  called  a  plug. 
To  his  young  ears  the  breaking  of  windows 

of  all  music  perfection's  self  was, 
And  this  may  p'rhaps  account  for  his  liking, 

when  a  man,  for  the  clink  of  the  glass. 

67 


Education  formed  but  a  brief  chapter  in  his 
life,  and  he  finished  it  quite, 

When,  at  public  expense  and  compulsion,  it 
had  taught  him  to  read  and  to  write ; 

But  the  language  that  knows  of  no  gram- 
mar, with  its  coinage  of  humorous  tang, 

That  is  not  of  the  peerage  of  wordings,  but 
the  favorite  mongrel  called  slang, 

He  had  mastered  with  such  a  deep  knowl- 
edge, that  it's  certain,  if  ever  there  were 

A  collegiate  course  for  its  study,  he  would 
grace  the  professorship's  chair. 

Yet  he  was  a  dispenser  of  knowledge,  and  he 
served  its  cause  well,  we  are  told, 

When  the  news  he  himself  never  read  unto 
others  he  hawked  out  and  sold. 

In  the  nerve  racking  voice  of  explosives  he 
remembered  the  birth  of  the  nation, 

Pandemonium  let  loose,  though  he  deemed 
it  a  patriot's  fine  demonstration. 

The  momentous  day  too  he  enjoyed,  when 
the  ballots  the  sovereign  will  note; 

He  brought  fuel  to  fired  civic  zeal  long  be- 
fore he  had  even  a  vote. 

'Twas  a  zeal  that  he  held  as  his  priesthood, 
with  that  one  solemn  duty  enjoined 

To  enkindle  the  watchfire  of  freedom, 
though  each  faggot  were  even  pur- 
loined. 

68 


Who  had  won  at  the  polls  he  cared  little,  a 

philosophy  not  so  abstruse, 
When  dishonesty  needs  of  no  lantern,  what 

political  side  you  may  choose. 

But  these  fires  of  his  youth  left  no  embers, 
though  his  zeal  was  as  ardent  and 
hearty, 

When  as  leader,  by  means  often  dark,  he 
enlisted  the  votes  for  his  party. 

'Twere  tedious  recounting  the  struggles 
that  led  to  his  eminent  station, 

Where  political  creed  he  allied  with  profits 
in  rich  combination. 

It  deserves  to  be  mentioned,  however,  that 
the  road  to  his  greatness  took  start, 

When  congenial  spirits  he  mingled  for  im- 
bibers with  masterly  art: 

Though  a  wage  slave,  he  acted  the  master, 
in  a  covert  way  easy  to  guess, 

By  the  which  he  could  stealthily  gather, 
and,  though  more  than  suspected,  possess. 

Soon  a  palace  of  bibulous  treasures  to  more 
wealth  its  attendant  fame  brings, 

Whence  to  rise  to  an  Alderman's  chair 
seemed  the  natural  order  of  things. 

There  it's  told  his  vote  he  held  dear,  and 
he  weighed  at  its  worth  ev'ry  action, 

69 


With  a  grasp  that  was  rich  of  results,  in 

a  tangible  sense  and  reflection. 
By  what  magic  the  wage  of  the  people  from 

mere  units  he  knew  how  to  swell 
To  a  multiple  stride  into  thousands,  many 

wondered,  and  some  dared  not  tell. 
By  such  means  he  ascended  to  greatness,  till 

at  last,  like  some  ruler  of  men, 
His  praenomen   sufficed  to  proclaim  him: 

it  meant  Caesar  to  mention  great  Ben. 

But  he  reached  the  real  crown  of  achieve- 
ment, when  servility,  docile-discerning, 

Legislated,  his  crude  limitations  were  pn> 
found  magisterial  learning; 

So  he  donned  the  grave  trappings  of  justice, 
and  expounded  as  law  his  decision, 

And  conventional  phrase  did  him  honor, 
though  behind  lurked  the  scholars' 
derision. 

You  could  fill  a  large  library  hall  with  the 
lore  he  ne'er  knew  of  or  heard, 

Yet,  too  oft  in  his  uncommon  law  the  sub- 
servience of  learning  concurred. 

He  astonished  who  knew  him  in  childhood, 
when  skilled  heraldry,  answering  his 
purse, 

Found  him  rights  to  armorial  bearings,  and 
a  long  line  of  ancestors. 


70 


RETRIBUTIVE. 

I've  seen  ingratitude,  its  irksome  conscious- 
ness 

Of  guerdon  overdue,  masked  in  forgetful- 
ness, 

Inflict  with  pois'nous  dart  its  least  expected 
sting; 

And  to  the  quick  wound,  with  the  venom  of 
its  fling, 

What  had  been  love,  nor  e'er  in  love  been 
onerous. 

I've  seen  faithridden  superstition,  many  de- 
ride, 

By  folly  to  my  unassuming  life  applied ; 

And  I've  been  taught,  in  bitterness,  the 
thoughts  to  gage 

They  may  have  thought,  who,  in  a  so-called 
darker  age, 

In  reason's  cause,  the  victims  to  unreasor; 
died. 

I've    seen    the    robes    of    justice    worn    by 

tyranny, 
That  named  its  arbitrary    will    the    law's 

decree; 

71 


I've  ached,  with  deferent  phrase  upon  my 

slavish  tongue, 
While  in  me  strained  invectives  to  denounce 

the  wrong 
Of  lawlessness,  wielding  the  law's  authority. 

I've  seen  deceit,  companioned  by  unbounded 
greed, 

Not  vainly  strive  o'er  toiling  honesty  to 
speed ; 

I've  found  the  world,  in  hero-worship,  lout- 
ing  stoops 

To  those,  whose  millions  stand  for  millions 
of  their  dupes: 

The  parasites  of  unearned  wealth  on  many 
feed. 

I've  not  been  spared  cupidity's  ensnaring 
train 

That  made  my  toil-won  hoard  the  loot  of 
grasping  gain; 

I  learnt,  by  wooed  prosperity's  too  ready 
friends, 

How  quick  sincere  adversity  such  friend- 
ship ends : 

The  coz'ning  flatterer  walks  not  the  road  of 
pain. 

I've  met  hostility,  of  envious  hate  the 
brood, 

72 


Not  as  the  valiant  foe  of  upright  fortitude, 

But  with  ophidian  stealth  that  takes  its 
covert  aim, 

Where  of  duplicity  the  semblant  shafts  de- 
fame, 

Though  the  detractor  dignifies  true  recti- 
tude. 

I  know  disfavor,  armed  with  overbearing 

power, 
And  the  timeserving  cognates  of  its  ruling 

hour, 
The  spoils  on  henchmen  lavished  riding  with 

the  tide, 
The  common  boon  to  those  not  of  the  fold 

denied ; 
Grace  measured  by  the  quality  to  crouch  and 

cower. 

I  know  the  mental  wastes,  that  ne'er  a  seed- 
grain  bore 

Of  quick'ning  thought,  and  even  were  ready 
to  ignore 

The  star  of  day, — if  that  it  had  a  lesser 
name, — 

To  see  a  world  in  bubbles  of  oft  cheap  got- 
ten fame, 

And  o'er  a  lust'rous  name  the  vapid  else 
adore. 

73 


I,  too,  have  known  that  purse-proud  super- 
fluity, 

Whose  highest  sentiment  is  hired  utility, 

And  grinding  task  of  wage-tools,  set  to  make 
success, 

(Or  yield  their  place,  when  sinews  fail  their 
purposes) 

For  upstart  wealth  that  boasts  of  self- 
paternity. 

And  yet,  how  undeserved  oppression  may 
have  harmed, 

I'm  not  to  bear  unjust  aggression  all  un- 
armed ; 

For  I've  received,  as  though  by  fairy  hands 
bestowed, 

When  at  its  infant  source  my  erst  sprung 
life  yet  flowed, 

An  armor  that  against  all  human  shifts  is 
charmed. 

And  when,  through  gossamer  gauze  of  the 

conventional, 
I  glean  the  brutal  circumstance  that  holds 

me  thrall, 
When  chafes  the  galling  yoke  of  need-born 

drudgery, 
And  points  to  thoughts  of  that  too  present 

tragedy, 
In  which  the  player's  exit  is  beyond  recall ; 

74 


Then  turn  my  thoughts  to  that  my  native 

gift  of  prize, 

Then  at  my  bidding  genii  of  fancy  rise, 
And  gird  me  with  the  sword  of  truth,  more 

mordant  keen 
Than  trenchant  steel,  with  all  its  tempered 

damascine, 
To  pierce  the  mail  that  flams  and  shams  in 

arms  allies. 

And  forthright  all  the  anguish  of  my  soul 
,  abates, 

And  in  a  trice  I  stand  before  the  palace 
gates, 

Within  whose  walls  dwells  Time,  the  ruling 
arbiter, 

To  whom  the  mightiest  of  the  mighty  must 
defer, 

'Fore  whom  benighted  pride  in  error  abdi- 
cates. 

And  soon,  with  quickened  throb  in  ev'ry 

pulsing  vein, 
And  dazzled  eyes,  the  august  presence  hall 

I    gain; 

And  the  Immortals  I  admired,  in  galaxy, 
Time's  ministers  of  grace  and  glory  I  can 

see — 
Did  ever  monarch  boast  of  such   a  royal 

train  ? — 

76 


There  on  a  dais,  'neath  star-lit  arch  of 
cramesy, 

Justice  is  throned, — not  that  of  earthly  fal- 
lacy, 

Whose  emmet-life  amenities  deflect  its  beam 

From  that  which  measures  true — ;  that  of 
the  poet's  dream, 

That  weighs  with  perfect  wisdom  of 
eternity. 

And  what  had  made  my  soul  cry  out  in 
wormwood  pain, 

The  smarting  wound,  felt  like  a  serfdom's 
sting  and  stain, 

The  leash  that  brought  to  manhood  an  in- 
dignant tear, 

And  all  my  burning  thoughts,  seem  known, 
ere  uttered,  here, 

Ere  yet  my  tongue  finds  fitting  accents  to 
complain. 

Anon  I  see  between  my  grievancers  and  me 

Of  chast'ning  Time's  unerring  Justice  the 
decree ; 

And  among  the  Ignominious  of  undying 
shame 

Some  I  can  well  perceive,  whose  deeds  will 
bear  their  name, 

With  that  same  stain,  immortal,  to  Pos- 
terity. 

76 


But  more  will  be  of  mere  forgotten  dust  a 
grain, 

When  I  may  still  have  life  in  memory's 
domain ; 

Nor  only  in  my  fancy's  dream  may  this  be- 
fall, 

But  living  day  may  swell  accordant  with  my 
call, 

And  what  in  truth  I  say  may  not  be  said 
in  vain. 


77 


TO  NIGHT. 

I  hail  thy  soothing  spirit,  restful  night, 
As  does  the  desert  wand'rer  hail  the  sight 
Of  waiving  palms,  by  zephyr  lips  caressed, 
That  mark  the  vernal  haven  of  his  rest. — 
Thine  advent  heralds  day's  expiring  charm, 
Thy  passing  lingers  in  Aurora's  arm ; 
So  beauty,  dight  with  roseate  light, 
Stands  guard  upon  thy  threshold,  night' 

I  hail  thee,  starry  commonwealth  of  night, 

In  thy  fraternity  of  lambent  light, 

In  which  each  beam  that  flashes  from  afar 

Proclaims  the  fervid  freedom  of  its  star; 

In  which,  unlike  the  intolerant  rule  of  day, 

Each  may  undimmed  pursue  its  radiant  way, 

By  stellar  right  in  lucid  height, 

And  gem  thy  shrouding  veil,  O  night! 

What  brings  the  rule  of  day  but  bustling 

strife, 

Where  life  is  waged  to  overshadow  life, 
Where  nerves  are  tense  with  restless  haste 

and  speed, 
And  care  drives  to  their  task  the  slaves  of 

need; 

78 


Where  thirst  for  riches  goads  the  intemper- 
ate throng 

The  frenzied  hours  of  unrest  to  prolong, 
And  madly  slight  thy  gracious  might, 
Thy   sweet   alembic, — sleep,   O   night! 

I  hail  thee,  peaceful  solitude  of  night, 
That  dost  in  dulcet  harmonies  unite 
What  crickets  trill  to  shrouds  that  chime 

their  lay, — 
As    were    they    harpsichords    that    spirits 

play— 

With  cadenced  ripples  of  the  purling  wave, 
And    distance-mellowed    chant    of    choral 

stave, 

Which  mortals,  light  of  heart,  delight 
To  mingle  with  thy  medleys,  night! 

Thine  fancy's  charmed  Arcadia,  O  night, 
That  brings  the  fairy  and  the  elfin  spright, 
From  amaranthine  bowers,  the  moonlit  lawn 
To  liven  till  their  curfew  hour  of  dawn; 
Thine,  too,  the  visionary's  haunted  sphere, 
Where  his  frail  reason  halts  with  tremulous 

fear, 

Where  phantom  wight,  and  goblin,  plight 
Their  weft  of  mystery,  O  night! 

Thine  is  the  trysting  hour  of  lovers,  night, 
That  does  heroic  deeds  of  love  incite, 

79 


Such  as  the  tongue  of  fame  so  fondly  tells, 
As  when  Leander  braved  the  Dardanelles; 
And  there  are  tales  within  thy  shadowy 

fold 

Surpass  all  fables  fancy  ever  told ; 
Tales  joys  indite  and  sorrows  write 
Upon  thy  fleeting  memories,  night! 

Thy  flight  joins   down-winged    sleep,    thy 

handmaid,  night, 
With  lethean  touch  to  heal  earth's  weary 

blight, 

And  from  the  trammels  of  its  terrene  loam 
Guide  on  the  soul  to  that  celestial  home, 
Where  dreams  the  skeletons  of  reality 
Charm  into  visions  of  beauteous  phantasy. — 
O  come!  alight!  with  dreams  so  bright, 
With  all  thy  wonders,  welcome  night! 


80 


IN  CUPID'S  COURT. 

Youth  and  Beauty,  surnamed  Mabel, 
Met  one  day  young  Titan  Abel ; 
Not  within  their  hearts  alone, 
But    around    them,    springtime    shone. 

Field  and  forest  haunts  assume 
Verdure  fresh  from  nature's  loom, 
Violets  and  snowdrops  spring, 
And  the  feathered  lyrists  sing. 

Amorous  promptings  everywhere, 
Could  you  blame,  then,  if  unaware 
From  her  lips  he  snatched  a  kiss, 
Rosy  lips  so  near  to  his? 

Yet  the  maid  seems  out  of  sort, 
Goes  straightway  to  Cupid's  Court, 
Court  of  ancient  jurisdiction 
In  such  case  in  truth  and  fiction. 

Would  you  venture  on  a  guess, 
Why  for  just  a  slight  caress 
She  should  be  at  so  much  pain? 
P'rhaps  the  sequel  may  explain. 

81 


To  resume  then  our  narration, 
Larceny  in  osculation 
Since  the  culprit  not  denied, 
Cupid  thereon  does  decide: 

That  the  kiss  he  must  restore, 
And  be  fined  one  hundred  more ; 
And  the  unrelenting  maid 
Sees  each  part  the  fine  is  paid; 

And  should  he  again  offend, 
Under  wedlock  he's  to  spend 
Bondage-life  in  Hymen-chains, 
So  the  judgment  too  ordains. 

L'envoi. 

Need  you  more?   Remember  that, 
Youth,  in  vernal  days,  they  met; 
Age  and  winter  may  consort, 
Youth  meets  spring  in  Cupid's  Court. 


82 


ALL  HER  OWN. 

When   she  sweeps  o'er  the  sensitive  keys 
With  the  force  of  her  masterly  ease, 
And  the  spirit  of  music  she  sways 
To  her  theme  and  harmonious  phrase, 
Though  her  rhapsodies  please  and  inspire, 
There  is  even  far  more  to  admire, 
How  her  soul  seems  to  thrill  with  each  tone, 
And  to  heighten  a  charm  all  her  own. 

When  the  pungent  shafts  of  her  wit 

Pierce  the  jocular  vein  at  each  hit, 

And  the  jocund  arteries  run 

With  the  life-blood  of  frolic  and  fun, 

Is  there  aught  with  her  looks  to  compare, 

And  her  saucy  and  challenging  air, 

And  her  smile  that's  not  smiling  alone, 

But  real  witchery  all  of  her  own? 

When  with  sorrow  her  sympathy  speaks, 
In   deep  fervor  that  crimsons   her  cheeks, 
Nor  her  tears,  but  her  deft  busy  hand, 
Helps  the  wounds  of  misfortune  to  mend, 

83 


And  her  words  of  no  eloquent  art 
Bring  the  solace  that  goes  to  the  heart, 
Who  has  feminine  strength  ever  known 
Of  that  tenderness  quite  all  her  own? 

When  she  draws  to  her  orbid  of  light, 
Among  many  a  satellite, 
That  fine  manhood,  you  need  not  be  told 
Is  the  lode-star  she  longs  to  behold, 
How  I  wish  that  my  youth  came  again, 
And  I  might  be  that  fortunate  swain, 
That  on  me  so  her  countenance  shone, 
With  that  lovelight  so  quite  all  her  own! 


84 


A  FISH  STORY. 

Come  from  thy  workaday's  stale  empery, 
And  trace  with  me  a  fresh  imagery 
That  had  its  rise  in  Oriental  climes 
Of    young,    though    commonly    misnamed 

olden,  times. 

There  found  this  tale  my  reminiscent  Muse, 
Fit  to  instruct,  and  likely  to  amuse; 
It  has  a  moral,  is  piscatorial,  too, 
And,  as  fish  stories  mostly,  quite  as  true. 

In  Bagdad  Saad  and  Sadi  lived,  two  friends, 
Who  passed  their  days  in  easy  affluence, 
And  thus  of  wealth  could  well  philosophise, 
For  "Rich"   by   flattery's   synonym   means 

"Wise." 
So  once  of  fortune  waxed  their  discourse 

hot: 
Saad  held  that  wealth  of  wealth  alone  was 

got, 

Naught  came  of  naught,  the  little  might  en- 
hance; 

While  Sadi  held  all  fortune's  source  mere 
chance. 

85 


Anon  the  disputants  had  carried  their  talk 
Abroad  with  them,  and  at  a  roper's  walk 
They  stopped,  and  watched  him  dealing  out 

his  hemp; 

His  was  of  poverty  the  typic  stamp, 
As  honest  Hassan  known  to  honest  men, 
None    more    deserved    that    friendly    cog- 
nomen ; 

Five  children  proved  his  wedded  fatherhood, 
But    sterile   wealth    proportioned    not   this 
brood. 

Day  in,  day  out,  his  labor  knew  no  rest, 

His  daily  bread  oft  merely  hardened  crust; 

He  gave  his  loved  ones  all  his  fostering 
care, 

With  little  thought,  aught  for  himself  to 
spare. — 

Such  was  the  man  had  stayed  their  argu^ 
ment, 

But  now  more  heated  caused  it  to  ferment. — 

Quoth  Saad:  "This  drudge  of  toiling  in- 
digence 

"Shall  own  through  me  a  kinder  providence; 

"Launched  in  the  good  bark  Opportunity, 
"With  sails  swelled  by  the  breeze  of  Industry, 
"He  shall  make  port  in  rich  prolific  isles, 
"Where     fortune     on     all     earnest     effort 
smiles." — 

86 


"Have  done  with  theories!    Now  let  practice 

start!" 
"  'Tis  known  that  wealth  and  folly  easily 

part," 

Quoth  Sadi,  "luck  not  riding  on  the  gale, 
"Ne'er  will  your  wealthy  haven  reach  his 

sail."— 

Soon  Hassan  rests  a  while  his  busy  hands, 
Responsive  to  the  bidding  of  the  friends, 
And  tells  his  plight  in  simple  words  and 

brief. — 
Quoth  Saad:  "Thy  tale  shall  have  another 

leaf, 

,,A  sequel,  turned  to  happier  destiny, 
"At    fortune's    gate    unlocked    with    golden 

key."— 
"Take  thou  this  purse,  with  all  it  holds  of 

gold, 
"And  may  it  prosper  thee  a  thousand  fold!" 

And  Hassan,  speechless,  tearful,  overcome, 
Bowed  low  to  Saad,  and  kissed  his  garment's 

hem; 
And  while  he  struggled  to  frame  his  thanks 

in  speech, 
The  friends  had  silent  passed  from  audient 

reach. — 
But  his  emotion  yields  to  calmness  soon, 

87 


That   turns    to    summing   up    his    precious 

boon : 
Two  hundred  crowns  toll  death  to  pauper 

care, 
But  to  proclaim  the  care  of  wealth  its  heir. 

For  now  each  rustling  of  the  wind-swept 

leaves 
Becomes    to    fear    the    stealthy    tread    of 

thieves ; 

Now  vexes  he  his  brain  his  treasure  to  hide, 
And  puzzles  where,  unable  to  decide. 
At  last,  a  happy  thought!  he  sews  his  gold, 
Ten  crowns  aside,  deep  in  his  turban's  fold ; 
Then  Cityward  his  quickened  way  he  made, 
Unto  the  noisy  arteries  of  trade. 

There  ready  gold,  in  barter,  amplifies 
The  needful  of  his  craft  in  merchandise; 
Then  he  bethinks  himself,  what  he  might 

spare 
For  luxuries  with  his  loved  ones  which  to 

share, 
That    they    might    all    enjoy,    at   fortune's 

door, 

The  taste  of  riches  never  known  before. 
This  thought  embodies  at  last  the  juicy  meat 
That  burdens  him  as  homeward  turn  his 

feet. 

88 


Soon  on  his  steps  the  rural  quiet  grows, 
As  lonely  stretch  the  City's  purlieus ; 
Still  on  the  day's  events  persists  his  thought, 
And  all  the  lucky  harvest  it  had  brought; 
Now,  self-derision  mocks  the  strain  endured 
Ere  in  his  turban  lay  his  wealth  immured. — 
Meanwhile  his  course  aligns,  in  altitude, 
A  vulture,  ready  to  truss  its  prey  for  food. 

And  suddenly,  with  shrieks  the  air  that  rent, 

As  leven  out  of  cloudless  firmament, 

The   ravenous   fowl   swept   from   its   dizzy 

height, 
And    burst    upon    his    sense    with    telling 

fright. — 

No  pad,  imagined  by  his  wits  whileere, 
Could  have  imbodied  so  his  sense  of  fear 
As  this,  that  cared  not  for  a  mine  of  gold, 
But  coveted  the  meat,  from  hunger  bold. 

And  now,  strange  was  the  battle  that  began 
Between  the  feathered  rover  and  the  man; 
With  beak  and   claws  the  bird  upon  him 

bore, 
To  seize  the  prize  the  other  clasped    the 

more; 

But  burdened  as  he  was,  his  single  arm, 
And  dext'rous  turn,  were  all  his  ward  from 

harm, 


So  it  befell,  at  some  more  violent  thrust, 
His  weighted  turban  rolled  into  the  dust. 

Who  has  not  heard,  how  trivial  incidents 
Oft  bear  the  pregnant  seeds  of  great  events? 
So  to  this  scene  the  falling  turban  brought 
More  tragic  ending  than  might  well  be 

thought ; 
For  strangely  now  the  bird  its  onslaught 

ceased, 
And   quick   as  thought    upon    the    turban 

seized ; 

And,  heedless  of  the  missiles  Hassan  threw, 
— Loud  in  despair — passed  quickly  out  of 

view. 

Ne'er  misery,  pictured  by  consummate  art, 
Could,  as  his  looks,  such  depth  of  woe  im- 
part, 
When  o'er  his  treasure,  strangely  lost  as 

won, 

His  lamentations  in  this  strain  went  on : 
"Alack  the  day  the  veil  of  life  unrolled, 
"With  little  of  joy,  and  lasting  cares  un- 
told, 
"To    one    who    loved    his    toil    and    idless 

feared, 
"Yet  e'er  was  bandied  by  malignant  weird ! 

90 


"My  wishes — shallow  runnels! — overflowed, 
"And  deepened,  with  the  generous  gift  be- 
stowed, 

"Now  is  all  promise  lost  its  access  bore, 
"And    wretchedness    is    wretchedness    the 

more, 

"What  world  is  this  that  will  not  let  us  win 
"A   life   that   lives;   yet    calls    self-slaying 

sin ! — 
"But  oh!  my  little  ones,  how  would  you 

fare, 
"If  I  were  gone?  alas!  I'll  live,  I'll  bear!"— 

So  day  by  day  he  labored  as  of  old, 

New  turbaned  with  the  relic  of  his  gold, — 

Six  times  thus  rolled  its  course  the  lunar 

wain 
Ere    purposeful    the    friends    sought    him 

again. 
Still   each    contended   for   his   championed 

view, 
And  inly  hoped    to    hear    what    proved  it 

true. — 

Soon  as  they'd  heard  that  melancholy  miss, 
Quoth   Saad,   incredulous:  "Why,  what  is 

this? 

"Wouldst  thou,  I  should  as  aught  but  fable 
treat, 

01 


"Thy  vulture  seized  thy  gold,  and  left  thy 

meat? 
"Come,  come!      At  least  be  true,    nor    play 

the  knave, 
"  'Twas  thine  to  waste  that  which  as  thine 

I  gave!" 

Then,  by  his  holiest,  in  solemn  stress, 
Hassan  made  oath  upon  his  truthfulness; 
But  Saad  feared  for  his  theories  by  that  oath, 
And,    by    belief   to   own   them   false,   was 

loath.— 

Here  Sadi  interposed,  elate  with  pride, 

How  well  the  tale  his  theory  verified; 

"The  tale  sounds  true !     I  know  by  avian 

lore, 

"This  vulture  did  as  others  did  before!" — 
So  truth  had  credence  by  consistency. — 
But  in  opinionate  persistency, 
Saad  left  with  Hassan,  wealth  with  wealth 

to  gain, 
While   wishing   speed,    two   hundred   crowns 

again. — 

Now  sits  the  bloom  of  joy  upon  his  cheecks, 
As,  quickly  stinting  work,  his  home  he  seeks ; 
But  finding  wife  and  children  gone  abroad, 
And  by  the  fear  possession  breeds  adawed, 
He  counsels  with  himself;  and  lastly  chose, 
To  stem  the  full  tide  of  his  happy  news, 

92 


Lest    want    should    rise   beyond    accustomed 

need, 
And  waste  the  golden  harvest  in  the  seed. 

Yet  wronged  these  thoughts  the  housewife's 

thrift  full  sore, 

That  knew  to  make  the  little  serve  the  more. — 
Howbeit,  his  eyes,  the  humble  room  that  scan, 
Light  presently  upon  a  jar  of  bran, 
Within  whose  dust,  he  thinks,  of  long  neglect 
No  one  his  golden  treasure  will  suspect. 
So  close  it  lay,  encoffined  in  that  grave, 
While  unto  chaffering  needs  his  time  he  gave. 

Meanwhile  the  good  wife  visit  gossip  ends, 
And  turns  to  home  economies  her  hands, 
When,  hearing  near  a  vender's  bargain  cry, 
She  runs  to  see,  though  penniless  to  buy, 
Then  it  occurs  to  her,  the  ugly  clay, 
That  jar  of  bran,  might  for  a  soapstone  pay. — 
So,  when  the  jar  was  viewed,  and  haggling 

spent, 
The    huckster    took    it    for    his    ware, — and 

went. — 

Hours  fly,  ere  Hassan  enters  at  his  door, 
Though  moments  tell  him  he  again  is  poor. — 
My  Muse  forbears  the  quarrel  to  approach 
That  now  engaged  the  pair  in  hot  reproach. 
Those  who  are  mated  need  no  lyric  bars 
To  tell  the  course  of  matrimonial  jars; 

93 


And  those,  who  joy  their  single  blessedness, 
Shall  only  feed  trite  humor  with  a  guess. 

Suffice  it,  then,  of  dreams  of  riches  shorn, 
Hassan  renewed  his  grind  upon  the  morn, 
And  many  a  day  looked  for  the  friends  in 

vain, 

Half  fearful  even  to  meet  the  twain  again, 
Lest  of  his  doleful  hap  they'd  speech  compel, 
And  deem  him  but  a  churly  ne'erdowell. 
At  last,  when  least  expected,  they  appeared, 
And   knew   full   soon,   what  he  to   tell   had 

feared. 

Said  Saad:  "Strange  is  thy  tale,  strange,  as 

the  ends, 

"Beyond  our  ken  and  power,  of  providence ! — 
"We'll  bow  to  fate,  unkindly  manifest." — 
Then,  Sadi,  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest : 
"Though   fortune  brought  to  gold  a  barren 

bed, 

"It  may  prove  fruitful  by  this  piece  of  lead, 
"Which,  as  by  lucky  chance  it  came  to  me 
"From  travelled  dust,  may  speed  thy  luck  for 

thee." 

And  Hassan's  thanks  the  base  gift  dignified, 
Which  he  with  care  took  home  at  eventide, 
Though  not  for  any  worth  or  any  need, 
But  for  the  giver's  sake,  to  keep  in  heed. — 

94 


Just  then  a  fisherman,  not  far  away, 
Made  ready  his  net  to  fish  at  break  of  day, 
But  for  the  want  of  lead  was  full  of  teen, 
To  cast  in  weighting  pellets  for  his  sein. 

Then  said  he :  "Good  my  wife,  bestir  thee  fine, 
"And  hunt  about  among  the  neighbors  mine, 
"If  any  will  help  me  to  the  lead  I  lack !" — 
She   went;  but   empty  handed   soon   came 

back. 
"She'd  knocked  at  every  one  but   Hassan's 

door, 
"Who,  she  surmised,    was  even  for  lead  too 

poor. 
"Yet  try  that  honest  man!"  then  wroth  he 

said, 
"Go,  woman!  go! — And,  Lo!  she  brought  the 

lead. 

Then  glad  to  Hassan,  in  the  prophet's  name, 
Pledged  he  the  first  catch  in  his  net  that  came ; 
And  ere  next  morn  toward  noontide  quite  had 

crept, 
A  large  fish  proved  the  pledge  had  well  been 

kept, 
On  which  Dame  Hassan  now  was  doing  her 

part, 

Wrapt  in  the  pride  of  culinary  art. 
But  suddenly,  as  she  guts  the  finny  meat, 
A  glittering  thing  falls  from  it  to  her  feet. 

96 


"This,"  thinks  she,  "is  a  pretty  piece  of  glass, 
"This  does  in  radiance  all  I've  seen  surpass." 
And,  verily!  lapideous  fire  it  seemed, 
From  which  a  world  of  prismy  lustre  gleamed. 
And  as  it  made  her  children  shout  with  joy, 
She  yielded  them  that  strangely  gotten  toy; 
And  so,  with  naught  their  noisy  glee  to  mar, 
They  played  at  marbles  with,    what  shone  a 
star. 

The  door  stood  wide,  while  thus  went  on  their 

game, 
When  to  the  scene  a  dame,  much  dizzened, 

came, 

Whose  spouse,  a  jeweler,  wealth  had  multi- 
plied 

By  bartering  gems  to  vanity  and  pride. 
Well  nature's  precious  handiwork  she  knew, 
Its  petrified,  its  sundipt,  crystal  dew, 
Which,  for  her  eyes  to  see  and  hands  to  touch, 
Was  of  its  worth  and  quality  to  judge. 

Well,  too,  she  knew  each  shrewd  phrase  and 

device, 

By  which  the  seller  lauds,  the  buyer  decries ; 
For  all  her  conscience  taught,  she  might  have 

bought 
Golconda's    mines    with    any    mere    specious 

naught. 
Now,  drawn  on  by  a  game  of  noisy  sort, 

96 


She  stops,  amazed  the  plaything  of  their  sport 
To  find  a  diamond, — aye!  a  priceless  gem, 
Fit  to  adorn  a  regal  diadem. 

Then,  thinks  she,  "here  is  ignorance  at  play, 
"May  sell  a  beggar's  toy  for  beggar's  pay!"  - 
Soon  hailed,  dame  Hassan  gossipy  makes 

known 
What   mine   it   was   had   held   that   pretty 

stone. — 
Quoth  then  the  other:  "This  glass  is  passing 

fine, 
"I'll   give  these   twenty   crowns  to   make   it 

mine !" — 

But  as  at  this  her  children  start  to  cry, 
Dame  Hassan  turns  to  them  without  reply. 

"La!"  thinks  the  other,  and  for  her  bargain 
fears, 

"This  mother  weighs  not  light  her  children's 
tears, 

Here  needs  more  tempting  bait  must  be  ap- 
plied." 

So  more  and  more  her  bid  she  multiplied, 

Until  well  into  hundreds  it  had  grown; 

But,  deaf,  dame  Hassan  stared,  as  were  she 
stone ; 

For  now  it  flashed  through  her  not  witless 
mind 

The  much  so  offered  left  much  more  behind; 

97 


And  so  it  proved;  for  ne'er  the  other  ceased 
Hotly  to  charge,  with  proffered  crowns  in- 
creased, 

Where  coy  assent  held  to  its  citadel, 
Though  into  thousands  now  the  figures  swell ; 
And  while  the  one  went  hot,  to  fever  mark, 
The  other  stood  at  zero,  firm  and  stark. — 
At  last  dame  Hassan  thus  broke  into  speech, 
When   fifty   thousand   crowns   she  heard   in 
reach : 

"If,  now,  one  hundred  thousand  you  would 

say, 

"I'd  ask  good  Hassan,  if  it's  aye  or  nay." 
"Agreed !"  the  other  cried,  not  thinking  twice, 
"One  hundred  thousand  crowns !  I'll  pay  the 

price !" 
With  that  they  parted,  each  her  spouse  to 

seek.-r- 

But  Hassan,  hearing  of  this  lucky  streak, 
Bethought  himself,  in  his  good  honest  heart, 
The  fisherman  in  this  should  know  his  part; 

And  knowing  what  his  fish  contained,  should 

tell, 

If  giving  it,  meant  giving  wealth  as  well. — 
"But,"  cried  the  fisher,  as  he  heard  his  tale, 
"The  fish  was  thine,  with  all  in  its  entrail, 
"I  pledged    it    by    the    prophet  thine,  when 

caught, 

98 


"And,    by    his    beard!  I'm  glad  so  much  it 

brought" ; 

And  would  not  hear  the  least  his  right  denied, 
No  matter  what  the  generous  Hassan  tried. 

So  ripened  chance  for  Hassan  strange  events, 
And  changed  his  poverty  to  opulence, 
Which,  shrewdly  to  familiar  work  applied, 
With  thrifty  skill  he  daily  amplified. — 
His   fabrics,   with   great   fame,   gained  great 

demand, 

And  many  artisans  owned  his  command, 
Housed  in  vast  structures,  every  sign  that 

bore 
Of  busy  hands  at  work,  and  ample  store. 

His  mansion,  least  for  ostentatious  pride, 
Was  most  that  makes  a  happy  fireside ; 
Such  hearty  cheer  ruled  friendly  its  domain, 
Its   guests   that   came   e'er   wished   to   come 

again. — 

Washed  by  the  Tigris  lay  his  country  seat, 
Affording  shade  and  rest  from  summer's  heat, 
Broad    acres    proved    the    plowman's    hus- 
bandry, 

While  copse  and  wood  proclaimed  good  for- 
estry. 

The  manor  house  seemed  like  a  fairy  bower, 
Where  floral  art  raised  even  the  rarest  flower ; 

99 


In  clovered  pasture  browsing  cattle  strayed, 
While    tended    in    their    stalls    sleek    horses 

neighed ; 
And    midst   its    feathered   harem,    shrill   and 

clear, 

Its  presence  proudly  voiced  the  chanticleer. — 
Such  was  the  man,  with  onward  strivings  rife, 
Since  fortune  seasoned  for  him  busy  life. 

Late  carried  to  the  friends  the  tongue  of  fame, 
Now  linked  to  riches,  honest  Hassan's  name. 
They  found  him,  by  prosperity  unspoiled, 
Where,  much  and  many  mastering,  he  toiled; 
Yet  was  his  bearing  humble  as  of  old, 
As  showing  them  his  teeming  stores,  he  told, 
How  into  golden  wealth  had  turned  that 

lead. 
But  Saad  at  this,  incredulous  shook  his  head : 

"Twice  I  believed  thy  tale  of  much  pretence, 
"Yet  stomachs  not  this  mess  of  fish  my  sense !" 
"Say,  my  four  hundred  crowns  have  prospered 

thee ! 

"Why  tell  such  tales,  and  not  confess  it  free  ?" 
Here  Sadi  spoke,  to  Hassan's  great  relief, 
To  reason  Saad  out  of  his  disbelief, 
"Such  thoughts  his  better  sense  should  spurn 

and  scout!" 
But  Saad  kept  both  his  counsel    and    his 

doubt. 

100 


Anon  to  Hassan's  home  they  all  repaired, 

Where  sumptuously  on  meat  and  drink  they 
fared ; 

And  on  the  morn  a  craft,  well  manned  and 
neat, 

Soon  carried  them  to  Hassan's  country  seat. 

Here  much  they  saw,  and  what  they  saw  ad- 
mired, 

But  halting  at  a  glade,  it  just  transpired 

A  woodman  passed,  who  bore  what  seemed  a 
nest, 

And  told,  obedient  to  his  master's  quest, 

That  in  a  tree  which  fell,  when  late  it  stormed, 
This  nest  was  found,  strange  of  a  turban 

formed. 

And,  Hassan,  seeing,  knows  his  own  again, 
Whose  loss,  in  want  that  cost  him  tears  of  pain 
Now  brought  him  tears  of  joy,  as  God  he 

praised, 

Who  in  the  cause  of  truth  this  sign  had  raised ; 
And  quickly  ripping  apart  the  turban's  fold 
Disclosed  unto  the  friends  its  hoard  of  gold. 

At  this  Saad  humbly  unto  Hassan  louts, 
Seeming  to  ask  forgiveness  for  his  doubts, 
Though  having  a  recess  yet  in  his  heart 
Which  held  that  jar  of  bran  in  doubtful  part. — 
This  issue  past,  they  see,  of  noble  race, 

101 


Deer- footed   barbs,    combining   strength    and 

grace, 
These,  as  he  hears  his  friends  admire,  with 

pride, 
Now  Hassan  orders  for  the  homeward  ride. 

So  when  quite  eventide  had  shrouded  day, 
They  started  on  the  sinuous  highway, 
Which  much  the  stretch  to  Bagdad  did  pro- 
long; 

And  having  fared  full  many  a  league  along, 
They  stopped,  on  seeing    a    rustic  dwelling 

near, 

To  satisfy  their  cravings  for  its  cheer. 
Soon  had  the  goodman  served  their  fullest 

need, 
When  they  remembered  horses  too  must  feed. 

But   fodder  was  there  none  a  horse  would 

chew, 

Unless,  the  rustic  said,  the  bran  would  do, 
That  filled  a  useless  jar  his  wife  had  bought, 
This,  for  the  want  of  better  meal,  he  brought. 
No  sooner  Hassan  did  the  jar  behold, 
But  knew  it  for  the  same  that  hid  his  gold, 
And  emptying  the  bran  upon  the  ground, 
Lo!  all  his  crowns,    untouched,    he    quickly 

found. 

102 


At    this,    no    less    than    Hassan,    Saad    was 

pleased ; 

Who,  rid  of  doubts,  esteem  for  him  increased, 
And  as  his  story  spread,  on  wings  of  fame, 
Hassan  the  true,  became  his  common  name. 
And  though  some  called  him  rich,  some  hon- 
est, too, 
His    proudest    predicate    he    deemed    "The 

True," 

For  what  is  honesty,  as  viewed  by  pelf, 
To  truth,  that  is  real  honesty  itself? 


103 


THRENODY. 

In  Memory  of  a  Friend. 

Pallida  mors  aequo  pulsat  pede 
Pauperum  tabernas,  regumque  turres. 

Impartial     death!      What   is   to   thee   divine 

decree, 
By  which   some  claim  the   purple    and    the 

crown, 

And  make,  or  unmake,  with  a  smile  or  frown, 
Oblivious  of  their  clay  in  showy  dignity! 

What  the  heraldic  blaze  of  Norman  ancestry, 
Won,  haply,  by  some  sanguinary  deed, 
That  in  a  rude  age  found  its  honored  meed, 
But  which  our  better  day  might  ban  to  infamy ! 

What  the  abundance  garnered  by  possessive 

lust, 

Which  for  it  common  ties  would  abnegate, 
With  surfeit  of  its  pride  inebriate, 
When  thou  comst  garnering  unto  thy  com- 
mon dust! 

What    the    preferment  falling  to  ambition's 

cast, 
With  all  a  people's  favor  that  exalts, 

1O4 


With  all  rhe  bark  of  envious  assaults, 
When  to  thine  end  the  splendid  tale  is  told  at 
last ! 

Life's  inequalities  are  at  thy  threshold  spent ; 
What  signifies  the  remnant  pomp,  that  brings 
Within  thy  portals  mortals  that  were  kings, 
More  than   the   passing    pauper's    wretched 
cerement  ? — 

Even  as  thy  coming  awes  to  whispers  busy 

speech, 

So  strident  passion  and  discordant  ill 
Are  in  the  shadow  of  thy  presence  still, 
And  charity  covers  frailty — aye!  its  rankest 

breach. — 

Who  comes  not  ushered  to  thy  shades  with 

loving  tears? 

Or  funeral  rhetoric,  whose  hireling  phrase 
Coins  not  in  words  the  truth  that  will  not 

praise, 
But  virtuous  unrealities  for  friendly  ears? 

Well  for  the  toiler,  when  his  time  of  rest  is 

reached, 

And  generous  voices  on  his  labors  dwell, 
That,  far  above  what  empty  words  can  tell, 
His  life  of  deeds  stands  in  a  shrine  of  honor 

niched ! — 

1O6 


When  to  the  full  thy  hour  the  seasoned  fruit 

to  reap, 

We  but  deplore  the  sum  of  earthly  days, 
But  when  thy  hand  the  rip'ning  blossom  slays, 
The  wound  gapes  wide,  thy  sting  is  lasting, 

and  is  deep. 

Thus,  in  the  heyday  of  his  flowering  summer 

bloom, 

With  all  the  fruitful  harvest-pledge  it  gave, 
I  saw  one  borne  to  his  untimely  grave, 
Snatched  from  the  cheerful  toil  he  graced  to 

silent  gloom. 

One  who  ennobled  by  his  friendship's  acco- 
lade, 

To  which  he  brought  a  meaning  all  his  own, 
In  ever  ready  acts  of  kindness  shown, 
Glad  by  a  friendly  word  and  hand  to  be  re- 
paid. 

He  walked  in  honesty,  his  vital  element, 
And  what  occasion  in  his  sphere  might  ask, 
He  brought  the  highest  merit  to  the  task, 
All,  on  the  joy  of  duty  well  performed,  intent. 

His  manly  nature  shone  in  quiet  dignity 
That  could  not  measure  to  the  henchman's 

part, 

Nor  learn  the  language  of  the  flatterer's  art, 
Nor  stoop  to  curry  favor  by  servility. 

loe 


What    honor   heritage    had    thrust    on    him, 

soared  higher, 

With  added  lustre,  in  his  sum  of  days, 
No  need  had  he  of  dry  ancestral  bays, 
That  ranked,  in  fresh  won  laurels,  even  his 

worthiest  sire. 

Though  history  pass  his  memory  by,  who  can 

forget 

That  knew,  the  charming  presence  of  his  life, 
So  well  attuned,  with  gifts  to  please  so  rife, 
Great,   with  the  greatness  of  the   rose   and 

mignonette  ? 

No  solaced  heirs  did  sorrow's  office  at  his 

bier, 

But  they  he'd  loved,  in  tearful  quietude, 
As  only  great,  and  deep  felt  sorrow,  could, 
Grieved,    and   yet   mourn,    the   friend,     well 

worth  their  manly  tear. 


107 


HOPE. 

O  happy  isle  in  midst  life's  warring 
Sweet  land  of  hope,  beheld  in  youthful  prime 
Like  some  enchanted  realm  of  Orient  clime, 
Though  battling  waves  storm  heavenward  in 

commotion ! 

Alas,  that  age  in  life's  receding  motion, 
While  all  else  ripens  in  its  mellowing  time, 
The  more  the  seared  leaf  yields  to  wintry  rime, 
But  sees  the  vanishing  goal  of  young  devotion ! 

And  when  life's  battered  bark  its  anchors  cast, 
When  curfew  tolled  the  day  of  labor  past, 
How  narrow  seems  of  hope  the  final  rest! 
Happy  whose  simple  faith  in  hope  abounds 
To  find,  beyond  decay  and  funeral  mounds, 
The  glorious  haven  of  a  loyal  quest! 


108 


THE   AGE   OF   COMMERCE. 

L 

Why  deprecate  the  spirit  of  the  age, 
And  turn  with  loving  eyes  upon  the  past, 
When  men  of  strife  in  iron  mould  were  cast, 
And  deeds  of  blood  were  honor's  proudest 

gage? 

The  lust  of  gain  is  graved  on  every  page 
Of  memory's  time,  and  will  be  to  the  last; 
The  warriors  glory  fed  on  spoils  amassed, 
As  now  the  chaff'rer  battens  on  gainful  wage. 

What  though  the  mailed  hand  rose  to  lift  a 

cross, 

And  beauty's  grace  became  a  battle-cry! 
They  were  but  seeds  of  war  and  war's  in- 
crease. 

I  prize  the  age  that  honors  peaceful  laws, 
Whose  palladins  for  commerce-honors  vie, 
And  slay  the  monster  war  with  arms  of  peace. 

II. 

What  are  the  wizard  arms  of  legend  tale 
The  will  that  served  to  kill  and  to  destroy, 
But  as  the  nursery  warrior's  martial  toy 
To  those  fair  arms  which  will  that  peace  pre- 
vail? 

109 


Beside  the  whisp'rings  hemispheres  that  hale, 
vSoft,  sensuous  words,  the  distant  ear  that  coy, 
Effacing  space  by  rule  of  art's  employ, 
Orlando's  league  borne  blast,  how  it  does  pale ! 

The  age  whose  wonders  miracles  dethrone, 
That  in  a  flash  of  thought  links  zone  to  zone, 
Whose  bartering  spirit  levels  race  and  creed, 
I  prize  with  all  its  frenzied  greed  and  speed, 
Its  sordid  hazards,  that  raise  their  avatar 
Above  the  time-worn  idol-gods  of  war. 

III. 

Hail  to  thee,  commerce,  mighty  archimage! 
Thou  spread st  a  gospel  of  fraternity, 
Beyond  the  narrow  bounds  of  bigotry, 
That  makes  the  whole  wide  earth  one  vicinage ! 
Thy  touch,  where  elemental  passions  rage, 
Turns  chaos  into  worlds  of  industry, 
No  lesson  preached,  as  that  he  learns  of  thee, 
Moves  savage  man  brute  impulse  to  assuage! 

Beneath  thy  soil,  in  all  sterility 

But  fruits  of  wealth  and  wealth's  utility, 

Though   barren  to  those  of  which  idealists 

dream, 

There's  yet  of  charity  a  worldwide  stream, 
That  wells  responsive  balm  in  generous  flow, 
And  came  from  antipodes  the  cry  of  woe. 


no 


From  the  German  of  Heine. 

I. 

Lean  thou  upon  me,  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  mingled  our  tears  will  flow, 
And  fold  me  close,  heart  unto  heart, 
And  the  gathered  flames  will  burst  aglow ; 

And  when  the  soaring  flame  receives 
The  flood  of  tears  we  cry, 
And  when  my  arm  around  thee  cleaves, 
With  yearning  love  I  die! 

II. 

They  gave  me  advice  and  precepts  fair, 
They  overwhelmed  me  with  honors  rare, 
I  should  but  wait,  I  heard  them  tell, 
And  they  would  patronize  me  well. 

But  with  all  their  patronage,  I  vow, 
I  might  of  hunger  have  croaked  ere  now, 
Came  not  a  man  most  true  and  good, 
Who  set  in  to  help  me  all  he  could. 

Brave,  good  man!    I'll  never  forget, 
Through  him  my  daily  bread  I  get; 
What  pity  that  kiss  him  I  never  can, 
For  I  am  myself  that  brave,  good  man! 

111 


III. 

When  in  thine  eyes  I  chance  to  see, 
My  woe  and  sorrow  cease  to  be; 
But  when  I  kiss  thee,  what  so  I  ail, 
I  am  quite  well  again  arici  hale; 

And  when  I  lean  upon  thy  breast, 
I  feel  of  heavenly  bliss  possessed; 
But,  say  I  love  thee  unto  me, 
And  I  must  weep  most  bitterly. 

IV. 

Thou  hast  both  pearls  and  diamonds, 
Hast  all  man  wished  of  yore, 
Hast  eyes  that  are  the  fairest, 
My  love,  what  wouldst  thou  more? 

To  thy  fair  eyes  I  have  written 

A  legion's  fullest  score 

Of  eternal  songs  and  ditties, 

My  love,  what  wouldst  thou  more? 

With  thy  fair  eyes  thou  hast  smitten 
And  racked  me  to  the  core, 
And  thou  hast  wrought  me  ruin, 
My  love,  what  wouldst  thou  more? 


112 


ERST,  IN  LIFE'S  TOO  DARK'NING 
SHADOW. 

From  the  German  of  Heine. 

Erst,  in  life's  too  dark'ning  shadow, 
Shone  an  image  radiant  fair; 
Now  the  fair  one  went  and  vanished, 
I  am  night-bound  more  than  e'er. 

In  the  darkness,  when  the  children 
Sit  in  fear,  their  spirits  at  bay, 
They   will — anxious   thoughts   to   banish- 
Lusty  sing  a  roundelay. 

I,  a  madcap  child,  in  darkness, 
Now  sing,  too,  a  song  for  cheer, 
Though  it  may  not  tune  up  charming, 
Yet  it  quits  me  of  my  fear. 


113 


UNBIDDEN    GUESTS. 

From  the  German  of  Anastasius  Gruen. 
The  festive  hall  receives  its  ruling  lord, 

A  God  in  miniature,  who  spoke  the  word 
That  gave  the  soul's  fond  dream  embodiment, 
The  fairest  word  divine :  "Let  there  be  light !" 
Then  was  this  sphere  a  radiant  firmament, 
Where  candles  flamed,  as  many  stars  unite ; 
As  moon  and  sun  for  dazzling  mastery  vie 
Globed  lustres,  candelabra,  girandoles, 
Nor  lack  the  dwellers  of  light  the  wings  to 

fly, 

By  music  fashioned  for  their  limbs  and  soles. 

Now  enter'st,  maiden,  thou,  with  timid  feet, 
Upon  the  world,  that  ocean  of  deceit! 
Though  tremulous,  thou  well  mightst  bravely 

bear, 

Proud  and  erect,  the  keenest  searching  glare, 
For  faultless  as  thy  body  it  would  know, 
So,  too,  immaculate,  thy  soul  would  show ; 
And  yet,  uncanny  comest  thou  esquired 
By  followers  drear  and  weird  to  my  beholding, 
Uncouth  of  limb,  unfestively  attired, 
With  clenching  fists,  and  brows  bent  near  to 

scolding, 

114 


Unknowing  of  society's   foundation, 
The  rule,  that  tends  the  anarchy  to  stem 
Of  dress,  deemed  of  convention's  regulation; 
The  liveried  crew  might  bar  the  place  to  them, 
Could  with  my  eyes  it  see  that  visitation. 

There  is  a  man,  sea  water  in  his  hair, 
A  land-born  triton,  who  for  thee  did  dare — 
Encoffined  in  the  diver's  bell — the  sea, 
Deep  down  unto  the  bottom  of  the  brine, 
To  bring  these  pearls  around  thy  neck  that 

shine, 
Did  he  not  earn  a  place  anear  to  thee? 

There  is  the  miner,  in  his  gray-haired  prime, 
His  apron,  lamp  and  hammer,  carries  he; 
Doomed  to  a  self-dug  grave  in  life's  own  time, 
Barred  from  the  verdant  vale,  the  sun-aired 

space, 

He  labored  in  the  bowels  of  earth,  to  bring 
The  glittering  gold  for  bracelet  and  for  ring, 
That  enviably  thine  arms  and  hands  embrace. 
The  lamp's   red   flamelet  strangely  overtinc- 

tures, 

With  lurid  glare,  this  blaze  of  dazzling  cinc- 
tures, 

A  bloodstain  on  a  white  veil  it  does  seem, 
Above  melodious  strains  a  woeful  scream. 

115 


There's  one,  Silesia's  son,  a  mountaineer, 
With  faith  in  Christ,  he  coughs  and  fasts  and 

prays, 
And  from  his  shuttle  his  restless  hands  not 

stays ; 
He  starved  with  wife  and  brood  full  many  a 

year, 

The  choicest  linen  around  thy  charms  to  place, 
Pure  as  the  blessing  of  a  father's  grace. 

i 

There  is  a  maid  of  virgin  age  like  yours, 
But    wan    and    careworn;    not    a    springtide- 
breeze 

Her  crispy  locks  will  ever  playful  teaze ; 
She  closed  to  every  vernal  joy  her  doors, 
To  be  thy  spring  while  winter  yet  endures, 
Binding  as  flowers  full  many  a  tinted  shred 
That  as  a  garland  flutters  on  thy  head, 
Though    earth   lies    frore,   and   death's   cold 

stings  the  sense, 

Yet  lacks  that  wreath  the  soul  of  redolence; 
It  minds  of  her  who  bound  that  chaplet  crown. 

A  woman's  there  with  her  sick  progeny, 
A  woolen  figleaf  all  her  festive  gown; 
'Twere  shameless,  were  it  not  so  sad  to  see. 
They  burrowed  in  the  earth  in  the  Brazils, 
To  fetch  thee  diamonds,  and  themselves — their 
ills, 

116 


There  is  a  boy  that  left  his  years  behind, 
Sent  to  the  schools  of  vice  that  kill  the  soul, 
The  workshops,  where  the  silken  threads  they 

spool, 

Thy  pied  and  gaudy  ribbon  band  to  wind ; 
Himself,  a  puny  silkworm,  he  must  die 
Ere  as  a  butterfly  he  spreads  his  wings. 
Didst  hear  the  flutt'ring  of  thy  ribbon  strings? 
And  couldst  thou  heedless  pass  his  greeting 

by? 

There  is  a  sailor,  sea-bathed,  browned  with 

tan, 
With  his  red  sash  and  glazed  hat's  leathery 

sheen ; 
Through  tropic  heat  and  ocean's  storms  he's 

been, 

To  bring  that  shawl  from  far  off  Hindostan, 
That  will  enfold  thee  soft  and  warmly  kind, 
Lest  at  thy  coming  home  night's  frosty  wind 
Thy  dance-hot  spirits  all  too  rudely  fan. 

For  just  one  hour  of  dance  thou  hast  enjoyed, 

0  maid,  of  form  so  fair,  and  soul  pure  white, 
•So  many  lives  defiled,  nipped  and  destroyed! 
Around    thy   vision   of    light    that    gathered 

blight, 
Unseen  by  thee,  and  only  in  my  sight, 

1  turn  as  otfier  dun  shades  yet  appear, 
With  fainter  followers  coming  in  their  rear. 

117 


LAY   OF  THE   FERRY. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going! 
Ceaseless  and  easeless,  the  human  tide  flow- 
ing! 

Whence  they  came,  and  whither  their  aim, 
None  of  the  hurriers  would  stop  to  proclaim. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going! 
Hurrying,  worrying,  each  to  his  doing ! 
Sorrow  is  there,  pale,  seamed  with  deep  fur- 
row, 
Telling  a  tale  that  no  language  need  borrow. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going! 
Striving  and  driving  by  measured  time's  show- 
ing! 

Droning,  its  bell  times  a  merry  farewell, 
Timing,  yet  chiming,  a  funeral  knell. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going! 
Hustling  and  bustling,  to  reap  by  their  sowing ! 
Knavery  that  paces  in  law-gilded  traces, 
Sly    furtive    stealth,    daring    bridewell    and 
braces. 

118 


Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going! 
Tense  with  the  sense  to  their  gains  and  their 


growing 


All  in  a  race  for  place  and  for  station, 
Greedy  of  moments,  in  mad  emulation. 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going ! 
Clowns  that  forget,  life's  solemn  debt  owing, 
Roisterers  crowding,  foul,  rousey  and  pursy, 
Charity  hast'ning  on  errands  of  mercy ! 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going! 

Life  and  its  strife,  with  its  pulsing  and  glow- 
ing! 

Haste  without  need,  and  waste  without  heed, 

Spurred,  as  by  death-winged  hell-fiends  of 
speed ! 

Coming  and  going,  coming  and  going! 
Born  to  sojourn  'twixt  unknown  and  unknow- 
ing! 

When  all  is  done,  the  swift  race  is  run, 
Who  but  the  worm  that  creeps  has  won? 


119 


THE  WARD   OF  THE  SWANS. 

Here  skirts  the  lake  the  sylvan  shores, 
And  the  pellucid  waters  scene 
Tall  frondent  elms  and  sycamores, 
As  in  a  mirror  hyaline; 
Upon  whose  opalescent  breast, 
Like  jewels  beauty  that  bedight, 
The  starry  canopy  seems  to  rest, 
A  heaven  on  earth,  to  grace  the  sight : 

Here  perfect  calm  of  peace  prevails, 
And  in  the  charming  solitude 
The  swans  glide  in  their  liquid  trails, 
And  songbirds  air  their  lyric  mood; 
Here  every  echo  is  a  note 
Of  music  on  the  ambient  air, 
And  worldly  discord  seems  remote, 
As  from  a  solemn  chant  of  prayer; 

Here  where  feat  nature  did  design 
A  spot  on  earth  to  be  sublime, 
As  though  it  were  her  very  shrine, 
What  mars  the  scene? — What  deed? — What 
crime  ? — 

120 


Lo,  on  the  placid  lake  afloat, 
A  tiny  craft,  by  no  hand  steered, 
A  ghostly  thing,  nor  bark,  nor  boat, 
A  mere  cohesion  rude  and  weird! 

Within  that  flimsy  shell — a  sight 
To  moisten  eyes  else  strange  to  tears — 
Lies,  bedded  on  rags  that  once  were  white, 
A  babe,  whose  days  scarce  number  years. 
The  loving  care  seems  fled  that  should, 
By  all  a  nurslings  due,  be  near, 
The  spell,  by  which,  in  motherhood, 
The  brute  becomes  of  man  the  peer. 

Yet  here  a  mother's  watchful  eyes 
To  hang  upon  her  child's  each  breath 
Were  vain,  and  vain  her  lullabies — 
Alas,  this  cradle  harbors  death! 
And  every  detail  of  this  bier 
Is  eloquent  of  tragedy, 
And  every  squalid  drapery  here 
Accentuates  death  of  mystery. 

What  might  the  chapters  of  its  tale — 
So  brief  and  few! — of  horrors  name? — 
Hides  here  mortality's  cryptic  veil 
The  misery  of  unwedded  shame, 
That  grew,  an  avalanche  in  its  fall, 
To  crime  the  savage  beast  might  daunt, 
Crime,  the  unpard'nable  of  all, 
In  desp'rate  fear  of  prudery's  taunt? 

121 


Or  did  a  ravishing  fiend  go  forth, 

To  rob  a  home's  parental  bliss, 

Its  light,  and  all  of  life's  own  worth, 

And  came  a  vampire  scheme  to  this? 

And  were  the  law's  insistent  hunt, 

The  hue  and  cry  throughout  the  land, 

An  infant's  wail,  all  vainly  spent, 

And  nerved  perchance  the  slayer's  hand? 

Or  served  this  death  ambition's  greed, 
Some  meaner  Richard  striking  down, 
By  a  remorseless  untracked  deed, 
The  barrier  to  a  coveted  crown? 
Or  did  insanity  guide  the  hand, 
That  lent  unto  the  errant  sense 
Love's  semblance  in  the  grievous  harm 
That  plucked  a  flower  of  innocence? 

Vain,  vain  all  the  conjecturing  mind 
Before  its  judgment  bar  arraigns! 
The  dark  affliction  stays  behind, 
And  what  offends  the  eye  remains. 
So,  like  a  festering  wound,  the  taint 
On  civic  rule,  we  boast  of,  shown, 
When  crime  goes  forth  without  restraint, 
And  the  offender  walks  unknown! 

O  impious  hands,  which,  ere  it  grew, 
A  sacred  childlife  rudely  sped, 
And  even  grudged  the  life  they  slew 
The  common  tribute  to  the  dead! 

122 


These  fragile  boards — what  funeral  hearse! 
That  squalid  drapery — what  a  pall ! 
And  all  for  dirge  and  psalter  verse 
The  splashing  water's  rise  and  fall! 

Dishonored  dead !  will  no  one  save, 

From  winged  and  prowling  ghouls,  thy  clay, 

And  bear  thee  to  a  hallowed  grave 

With  those  who  honored  passed  their  way? 

Unanswered  cry  that  finds  no  ear! 

Yet  stay ! — What  brings  the  swans  to  brood, 

In  solemn  concourse,  o'er  that  bier, 

As  though  they  knew  and  understood? 

Lo,  they  have  formed  around  the  corpse, 
As  mourners  might,  and  o'er  the  lake 
They  move,  past  groves  and  sleepy  thorpes, 
To  where  the  City's  pulsebeats  wake; 
Where  unruled  crime  to  rule  will  yield, 
And  law  and  order  tardy  stir, 
This  shard  of  life  they  could  not  shield, 
To  give  a  wretched  sepulcher. 


123 


THE    MINSTREL'S    CURSE. 

From  the  German  of  Uhland. 

There  rose  a  lordly  castle,  in  times  remotely 

old, 
It  shone,  a  far  seen  landmark,  to  where  the 

blue  sea  rolled, 
And  fragrant  gardens  around  it  gave  wreaths 

of  many  flowers, 
And  there,  in  rainbow  splendor,  fresh  springs 

arose  in  showers. 

There  sat  a  king,  imperious,  a  landwide  con- 
queror, 

He  sat  upon  his  throne  there,  so  pale  and  sin- 
ister ; 

For  what  he  plans  is  terror,  and  fury  what  he 
sights, 

He  only  speaks  to  chastise,  and  blood  is  what 
he  writes. 

One  day  unto  this  castle  two  minstrels  took 

their  way, 
One  young,  with  locks  fair  golden,  the  other 

old  and  gray; 

124 


And  with  his  harp  the  old  man  upon  a  brave 

steed  rode, 
The  while  his  young  companion  beside  him 

briskly  strode. 

Then  the  old  man  said,  "Be  ready,  my  son,  to 

sing  with  zest, 
"Of  all  soul  stirring  ditties  thy  tenderest  and 

best; 
"With  all  thy  power  sing  gladness,  and  give  to 

sadness  tone, 
"It  is  to  touch  and  soften  that  proud  king's 

heart  of  stone." 

Anon  the  minstrels  enter  the  lofty  pillared 

hall, 
Where  on  the  throne  are  seated  the  king  and 

queen  withal; 
The  king,  in  fearful  splendor,  like  bloodred 

Northern   light, 
The  queen,  sweet  in  her  mildness,  as  shone  the 

moon  full  bright. 

Now   strikes  the  aged  minstrel  his  harp  so 

wondrous  clear, 
That  rich,  and  ever  richer,  the  full  chords  feed 

the  ear; 
Then,  pure,  the  youth,  and  heavenly,  leads  the 

melodious  theme, 
The  old  man's  chant,    low  mingling,  makes 

spirit  voice  it  seem. 

125 


They  sing  of  love  and  springtide,  of  happy 

golden  time, 
Of  manly  worth  and  freedom,  of  faith  and 

trust  sublime, 
They  sing  of  sweet  emotions  that  e'er  stirred 

human  breast, 
They  sing  of  high  ideals  that  human  heart  e'er 

blest. 

The  crowd  of  courtiers  present  lost  all  their 

mirthful  mood, 
And  as  in  reverent  prayer  the  king's  grim 

warriors   stood ; 
The  queen,  to  joy  and  sadness  stirred  by  the 

mighty  strain, 
Took  from  her  breast  the  roses  to  throw  unto 

the  twain. 

"You  have  led  astray  my  people,  would  you 
too  delude  my  wife?" 

The  king  thus  shouted  madly,  with  frenzied 
fury  rife; 

His  sword,  with  lightning  fierceness,  the 
young  lad's  bosom  stung, 

Out  which  now  bloodstreams  flooded,  in- 
stead of  golden  song. 

And  as  by  stormwind  scattered  is  all  the  listen- 
ing swarm, 

The  lad  has  breathed  his  last  gasp  within  his 
master's  arm; 

126 


He  throws  his  cloak  around  him,  and  on  his 

horse  does  stall 
The  dead  bound  fast  and  upright,  and  leaves 

the  castle  hall. 

But  at  the  lofty  portal  the  old  bard  yet  delays, 

His  harp  he  has  uplifted,  that  harp  beyond  ap- 
praise, 

He  shatters  upon  a  column  that  harp  of 
golden  strings, 

And  then  his  voice  thus  weirdly  far  over  the 
vast  space  rings: 

"Woe  unto  you,  ye  proud  halls,  may  never  a 

sweet  strain 
"Within  your  walls  re-echo,  ne'er  harp  nor 

song  again, 
"No,  only  groaning  and  sighing  of  slaves  that 

cower  and  creep, 
"Till  the  spirit  of  vengeance  crush  you  to  dust 

and  mouldering  heap!" 

"Woe  to  you,  fragrant  gardens,  in  moonlit 
radiance, 

"To  you  I  show  this  dead  b9y's  distorted  coun- 
tenance, 

"That  by  this  sight  you  wither,  and  all  your 
springs  go  dry, 

"And  in  the  coming  future  a  barren  waste  you 
lie!" 

127 


"Woe  to  thee,  murderous  dastard,  thou  curse 
of  minstrelsy, 

"May  vain  thy  gory  struggles  for  crowns  of 
glory  be, 

"Thy  name,  be  it  forgotten,  and  night  its  last- 
ing share, 

"Be,  like  a  final  death  gasp  breathed  to  the 
empty  air!" 

The  old  man  thus  hath  spoken,  and  heaven 
has  heard  his  call, 

The  walls  are  down  and  broken,  the  halls  are 
ruins  alT; 

One  stately  column  only  speaks  of  the  splen- 
did past, 

But  this  too  burst,  may  tumble  down  over 
night  at  last. 

No  fragrant  gardens  around  here,  but  only 
desert  land, 

No  tree  that  spreads  a  shadow,  no  spring  that 
moists  the  sand, 

The  king's  name  never  honors  heroic  page  or 
verse, 

Sunk  into  night  forgotten — that  is  the  min- 
strel's curse. 


128 


WOMANLY. 

She  likes  to  know  all  safe  and  sure, 
Within  a  vault  of  triple  steel, 
Her  diamond  necklace  or  parure, 
Her  stocks  of  fancied  worth  or  real. 

Her  things  of  lesser  value,  too, 
She  likes  to  hold  in  some  recess, 
To  which  alone  she  holds  the  clue 
For  any  emergent  readiness. 

But  sometimes  memory  serves  her  ill, 
She  looks,  with  strong  anxiety  crossed, 
For  something,  that,  search  as  she  will,. 
Seems,  in  excess  of  safety,  lost. 

And  then  she  frets,  in  megrid  pain, 
Until  it  strangely  does  befall, 
Her  search  renewed,  shows,  to  her  gain, 
The  thing  deemed  lost  not  lost  at  all. 

But  she,  perchance,  herself  derides 
What  be  no  raillery  to  me, 
For  there's  one  thing  she  never  hides, 
Nor  ever  locks  as  with  a  key. 

She  never  hesitates  or  halts 
To  find  love's  due  in  generous  part, 
She  never  hides  in  safety  vaults 
The  treasures  of  a  womanly  heart. 


129 


THE    LAST    GOOD-BY. 

His  words,  in  sharpness,  pierced  her  heart, 
It  bled  from  out  her  weeping  eye, 
And  then  he  went,  her  grievous  smart 
Spurning  the  balm  of  his  "good-by." 

His  mortal  last  word,  as  he  went, 
She  hears  it  still,  it  haunts  her  yet, 
Leaving  the  heart  in  life  he  rent, 
In  death  a  legacy  of  regret. 


JUDICIAL    ANARCHY. 

Judicial  Anarchy  find   seated  here, 
Forsworn,  with  all  its  show  of  dignity; 
And  yet  you  may  perhaps,  to  view  it  near, 
Find  but  a  pigmy  in  authority. 

Though  perched  in  high  authority, 
Here's  but  a  puppet  wears  a  crown, 
And  know,  the  voice  of  deference 
Is  only  for  six  yards  of  gown. 


130 


PRANDIAL    HONORS. 

Here  is  of  excellence  the  grand  summation, 
Of  meat  and  drink  the  veriest  peroration, 
Such   masticating  bibulous   animation, 
Such  eloquence  of  mutual  admiration! 


A   TALE    OF   LOVE. 

They  met,  I  need  not  mention  where, 
She  not  so  homely  nor  quite  fair, 
But  with  a  fortune  in  her  right; 
He  not  so  rich,  nor  yet  quite  poor. — 
He  saw,  he  wooed,  and — to  be  sure — 
'Twas  love   (of  money)   at  first  sight. 


The  pride  of  judgment  wears  its  honors  ill 
That  has  no  reason  but  unreas'ning  will. 


In    stilted    phrase    Dolt    circumscribes    his 

commonest  speech, 

And  deems  his  turgid  diction  elegance; 
Though  all  his  verbal  oddities  but  teach 
How  misfit  words  conform  to  misfit  sense. 

131 


There  is  a  death  to  try  our  hearts, 
As  much,  as  when  a  loved  life  pays 
The  debt  to  nature  in  its  days, 
When  the  aureole  of  love  departs; 

And  all  a  soul  life's  glorious  mould, 
That  seemed  a  spiritual  Galatee, 
Stands  forth  in  sordid  nudity, 
The  lowliest  clay  beneath  its  fold. 

There's  one  that  I  held  dear  so  dead, 
A  woman  I  dreamt  divinity's  worth, 
Though  but  of  treacherous  graceless  earth 
To  wakened  eyes  now  dreams  are  fled. 

I  saw  her  woeful  wedded  state, 
The  consort  that  with  grudging  hand 
Gave  but  what  duty  could  command, 
A  friend  to  many  but  his  mate. 

I  saw  her  in  her  widowhood, 

When  friends  were  scarcer  than  her  need, 

For  sympathy  I  heard  her  plead, 

And  gave  her  all  that  friendship  could. 

I  pitied  her  her  past  lived  wrongs, 

And  in  that  pity  scarcely  gave 

The  friend,  whose  wrongs  had  sealed  the 

grave, 
The  reverence  that  to  death  belongs. 

132 


I  bore  the  buffets  of  her  strife, 
The  odium,  for  her  wordly  gain, 
Mine  were  her  battles  and  their  stain, 
So  she  but  lived  a  tranquil  life. 

I  raised  her  on  a  pedestal, 
My  fancy's  womanly  paragon, 
Her  woman  sister  to  measure  upon, 
How  small  she  measured  among  all! 

She  pledged  to  me  in  words  that  weigh, 
Her  friendship,  be  it  for  woe  or  weal, 
How  treacherous  lips  could  well  conceal 
The  selfish  readiness  to  betray! 

And  then  'twas  done,  there  came  the  end, 
When  to  her  gods  of  craft  and  greed, 
In  subtly  brutal  word  and  deed, 
She  sacrificed  faith,  truth,  and  friend. — 

I  see  now  how  she  made  appear 
The  passions  of  volcanic  fire 
The  uttermost  calm  of  still  desire, 
In  that,  as  all  else,  insincere. 

I  see  how  in  her  wedded  state 
Love  could  but  die;  I  understand 
How  but  stern  duty  could  command 
Where   many   were   friends   but   wife   and 
mate. 


133 


THE   DREAMKING   AND   HIS   LOVE. 

From  the  German  of  Emanuel  Geibel. 

Sweet  slumbers  within  the  cozy  room, 
On  clean  white  pillows,  the  maiden ; 
The  summer  night  inwafts  its  perfume, 
With  freshening  breezes  laden. 

Nearby  the  window  are  roses  withal, 
Sweet  smell  the  lindens  in  flower, 
Scarce  may  the  radiant  moonlight  fall 
Through  their  deeply  frondent  bower. 

But  suddenly  greater  fragrance  abounds, 
And  glowworms  flame  up  and  flutter, 
The  foliage  rustles,  the  air  resounds 
With  voices  melodious  that  utter: 

"Sweetheart,  Sweetheart,  and  rock  thee  fine 
"On  waves  soft  slumbers  that  carry, 
"The  Dreamking  comes  to  be  lover  of  thine, 
"He  comes  with  thee  to  tarry!" 

Anon  the  elf  by  her  doth  stand, 
And  shakes  his  locks,  crisp  darkling, 
That  sets  his  crown's  rich  jewel  band, 
And  all  the  gems  in  it,  sparkling. 

134 


Then  bends  he  to  the  fair  one  fond, 
With  kisses  her  lips  he  graces, 
And  with  his  golden  magic  wand 
Many  airy  a  circle  traces. 

And  as  he  draws  them  afar  and  more  close, 
A  palace  becomes  the  aery, 
Wherein  in  princely  splendor  repose 
The  Dreamking  and  his  deary. 

Of  swelling  bolsters  made  up  quite 
The  purple  bed's  resplendent, 
At  distance  a  lamp  sheds  lambent  light, 
Two  pages  kneel  attendant. 

O'erhead  on  a  ring  of  silver  swings, 
Pied  plumaged,  a  bird;  and  flitty, 
Soft  swaying,  as  if  in  sleep,  it  sings 
Liquid  a  bridal  ditty. 

So  the  Dreamking,  in  endearings,  inclines 
To  his  love  that  his  arm  incloses, 
Till  on  the  couch  the  morning  shines, 
Alight,  with  a  wreath  of  roses. 

Then  the  elf,  light  winged,  his  airy  way 

takes, 

And  the  charm  is  dissolved,  and  its  meshes, 
And  the  maiden  in  all  her  beauty  awakes, 
The  lovelier  for  her  blushes. 


135 


And  as  she  unfolds  the  lids  of  her  eyes, 

'Neath  fringe  of  long  lashes  beaming, 

She    presses    her    hand    to    her    heart    and 

sighs    : 
"Oh,  was  I  but  blissfully  dreaming!" 


Thou  comst  into  my  solitude, 
The  sadder  for  its  lonely  mood, 
As  comes,  to  shed  its  cheerful  light, 
The  evening  star  to  somber  night. 

Thou  comst  into  my  life  of  care, 
Where  self's  the  rule  and  love  is  rare, 
As  comes  the  thrush  and  robin's  song, 
Where  erst  wild  forest  voices  rung. 

Thou  comst  into  mine  hour  of  gloom, 
When  courage  lags  and  all  is  doom, 
As  comes  the  sun,  and  day's  new  birth, 
And  all  the  joy  of  living,  to  earth. 

Thou  comst  unto  the  grind  and  strain 
For  daily  bread  and  worldly  gain, 
As  comes,  and  quick'ning  life  balm  yields, 
The  summer  shower  to  parching  fields. 

136 


Thou  art  the  ever  present  theme, 

In  variant  phase,  of  thought  and  dream, 

As  gelid  north  shores  ever  prize 

The  gulf  stream's  gift  of  tempered  skies. 

Thou  art  in  my  life's  commonplace 
The  gifted  page  inspired  with  grace, 
That  speaks,  as  from  a  treasured  scroll, 
The  language  of  a  kindred  soul. 

I  prize  thy  friendship  far  above 
The  selfish  bondage  oft  named  love, 
As  I  prize  the  mountain's  free  ozone 
'bove  breezes  prisoned  midst  urban  stone. 

There  is  a  spell  when  thou  art  near, 
As  though  I  touched  a  loftier  sphere, 
Borne  to  a  peerless  dignity 
Of  tender  thoughts  thou  givest  to  me. 


137 


THE   VOTER. 

They  meet  us  almost  with  affection 
One  month  or  more  before  election, 
They  write  full  many  a  deferent  note 
Soliciting  our  support  and  vote. 
Nor  chary  they  of  fine  words  spoken, 
And  promises  meant  to  be  broken, 
And  platforms  only  meant  to  last 
Till  all  the  sovereign  votes  are  cast. 

They  seek  us  out  for  their  promotion, 
As  breakers  in  the  elective  ocean, 
To  land  them,  cleansed  of  olden  scores, 
On  new  spoils  at  the  official  shores; 
They're  loud — (with  mental  reservation)- 
To  cry  reform  in  all  relation, 
Meaning  they  should  the  spoils  divide 
Too  long  had  shared  the  other  side. 

They  paint  their  politics  as  heaven, 
With  them  as  the  angelic  leaven, 
While  their  opponents  they  assay 
For  all  that  tends  the  opposite  way, 
Explaining  these  corrupt  and  venal, 
Of  ways  yet  barely  short  of  penal, 
So,  to  their  qualities  we  should  rise, 
And  in  them  honesty  canonise. 

138 


But  these   fine   sentiments   so   propounded 
Mean     this,     when     pondered     well     and 

sounded : 

To  hold  as  honest  graft  the  same 
We  all  know  by  an  uglier  name, 
Knowing  that  wealth  by  sudden  stages, 
Gleaned  only  from  the  people's  wages, 
Is,  honestly,  mere  bar-sinister  taint, 
As  far  from  angel  as  from  saint. 

Nor  see  we  ought  in  both  their  ethics 
Than  the  old  saw  in  mathematics, 
And  a  dozen's  half  just  tallies  six 
Most  of  all  in  both  their  politics. 
And  that  we  are  merely  votes  and  factors, 
— (Though  by  their  blandishments  real  ac- 
tors)— 

Mere  figures,  by  which  they  calculate 
To  land  their  pledge-ridden  candidate. 

And  when  is  past  the  shouting  battle, 
Mayhap  they  dub  us  voting  cattle, 
And  like  the  ancient  augurs  laugh, 
How  they  have  bobbed  us  with  their  chaff. 
Feeling  secure  the  privileged  center, 
Where  none  but  their  elect  may  enter, 
Nor  having  ear  for  what  we  say 
Until  the  next  election  day. 


189 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  UNREST. 

There  is  a  spirit  that  spreads  its  wings 

O'er  sea  and  land, 

On  every  hand 

Of  humankind's  seedings  and  harvestings. 

The  spirit  of  unrest  thus  holds  sojourn, 
As  wisdom  full  strong 
From  the  godhead  sprung, 
Unwisdom  of  the  manhead  born ; 

Conceived  in  the  reek  and  rouse  of  success, 

The  tenseness  and  strain 

Of  the  gamble  for  gain, 

And  the  never  satiate  covetousness ; 

In  the  struggle  of  the  many  bred, 

The  grudging  meed 

To  laboring  need, 

And  its  skimping  dole  of  daily  bread ; 

Of  the  gilded  decadent's  heritage, 

The  attavic  bane 

In  nerve  cell  and  brain, 

Diffuse  in  debauch  of  vagabondage. 

140 


It's  the  monster  of  myth,  become  real  in  our 

day, 

With  sacrifice  fed 
Of  human  blood, 
Voracious  no  less  its  victims  to  slay. 

It  deplaces  for  unfeeling  gear  and  force, 
To  all  else  blind 
But  to  outrace  the  wind, 
The  feeling  and  sense  of  the  tried  and  true 
horse ; 

And  drunk  with  motion  it  cuts  a  wild  swath, 

With  death  at  the  brake, 

And  life  as  the  stake, 

And  wail  and  woe  in  the  wake  of  its  path ; 

And  man  reverts  to  the  brute  in  its  haunts, 
As  the  savage  within 
Sheds  his  thin  moral  skin, 
And  gloats  o'er  the  prostrate  with  hellish 
taunts. 

It  invades  the  realm  of  the  eagle's  fee, 

On  wings  man  wrought 

In  eons  of  thought 

To  sail  the  sea  of  infinity; 

And  the  heaven  the  savant,  the  poet,  and 

saint, 
Each  wrapt  in  his  lore, 

141 


E'er  gazed  to  adore, 

It  defiles  with  the  wiles  of  earthly  taint; 

And,  as  a  fledgling  untimely  bold, 
It  scenes  in  air 
The  tumbler's  dare, 

And  juggles  with  life  for  a  pleasure  crowd's 
gold. 

It  vaunts  the  sullen  treacherous  main 

Enchained  by  man's 

Leviathans, 

Nor  recks  the  turn  that  rends  the  chain; 

It  sets  its  pace  to  the  cheering  marts, 

And  embarks  to  efface 

The  vanishing  space, 

And  wakens  the  perils  that  know  no  charts, 

Till  pride  and  the  frolic  of  speed  at  last 

reap, 

Among  glacial  hosts 
On  their  silent  posts, 
The    horrors    of    death    on    the    wreckage 

strewn  deep. 

It  rules  the  close  cells  of  industrial  hives, 

Where  the  count  only  stands 

For  wage  slaving  hands, 

Nor  weighs  aught  else  of  pulsate  lives ; 

142 


Where    the    toilers    are    held,    as    furtive 

knaves, 

Too  ready  by  stealth 
To  filch  of  near  wealth, 
In  all  but  the  bondage  of  penal  slaves; 

Where  the  wastes  are  sought  by  the  fiery 

thrall, 

And  ensnared  in  the  maze 
Of  the  holocaust  blaze, 
The  doomed  die  entombed  in  the  grim  shut 

wall. 

It  thrives,  where  hunger  is  taxed  that  would 

eat, 

By  the  greed  that  feeds 
On  the  multitude's  needs, 
To  the  utmost  of  wage  for  the  skantling 

meat. 

It  grows,  where  the  pelf-inspired  law  makes 

sure, 

By  all  it  says 
And  fails  to  phrase, 
That  abundance  be  richer,  need  poorer  than 

poor. 

It  spreads,  where  the  breach,  only  venial 

When  affluence 

Joins  with  offence, 

Is  visited  else  as  criminal; 

143 


Where  ancient  wrongs  that  the  lowly  grind, 

What  the  people  may  will, 

Are  dominant  still, 

By  moss  covered  rule  where  justice  is  blind. 

O,  when  will  justice  and  reason  prevail, 

And  lives  be  of  worth 

Above  the  spoils  of  the  earth, 

And  all  that  o'erwrought  strivings  avail! 

Well,  if  conscience  wakens,  and  self  appeal, 

To  a  better  start, 

And  the  wide  common  heart 

Find  the  balm  the  fever  of  unrest  to  heal! 

Alas,  if  the  evil  be  fostered  and  fed, 
And  oppressive  laws 
Shall  only  pause, 

When  effaced  by  a  pen  that  is  dipped  in 
blood! 


144 


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